Faultlines
by Pinky Brown
Summary: Breaking up is hard to do, but Ron and Hermione are about to discover that putting the pieces back together is even harder. This story was nominated in 5 categories and Winner of "Best Angst Fic" at the 2008 Ron/Hermione Awards on LiveJournal.
1. Chapter 1: The Letter

Summary:

Breaking up is hard to do, but Ron and Hermione are about to learn that trying to put the pieces back together is even harder.

Author's notes:

There will be some swearing from Chapter 3 onwards (Hurrah!), hence rating.

Not remotely DH-compliant ('cos that epilogue was rubbish)

Hope you enjoy, and please review!

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F A U L T L I N E S

by Pinky Brown

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Chapter One: The Letter

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I re-read Harry's letter for the umpteenth time, with shaking fingers.

_"Hey Hermione,_

_Friday night's fine with me, as long as you provide the paintbrushes and some beer! It shouldn't take more than a few hours to do the whole room, even if we do it the Muggle way. Famous last words, I know! Oh, by the way, I thought three pairs of hands might be better than two, so Ron is coming. Hope that's OK. See you tomorrow!_

_Love, Harry."_

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Ron is coming. _Ron _is coming! I feel shaky and sick and have to sit down, still staring at the letter in my hand as though the words might change their meaning. How can Harry write something like that in such an offhand manner? "Oh, by the way…" "Hope that's OK." No, it's not OK! How can you even ask that? _Why_ is he coming? It's been nearly two years. Maybe Harry's just fed up of never being able to see his two oldest friends in the same room. The same town. Maybe he thinks that after two years, we should be able to be civil to each other. Harry should know better.

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I don't think I can bear to see him again. It's too much. Too soon. Too soon, after two years! All these old emotions I thought I would never feel again are surging through me. _Ron is coming_. Why, why is he coming? Why now? Maybe he's met someone. Instantly I'm certain this must be the answer. Yes, that's it, he's met someone, and that's why he can come here and help Harry paint my front room when we haven't spoken in twenty three months. He's met someone else, and he's over me, and he's doing this to prove that he is. My stomach gives a funny lurch. I don't know how I feel about this. I don't _want_ him to have met someone else. I know I have no right, but I can't bear to picture him happy with another girl. Even though until yesterday I thought I was over him. Now I realise I haven't even _started_ to get over him.

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I did all my crying in those six weeks before I left. Those awful six weeks where we just screamed at each other for what felt like twenty-four hours a day. Knowing each other all your lives can be a bad thing at times like that. You bring up things you haven't argued about in years. Old wounds get re-opened and gnawed at. You find yourself saying things just to hurt the other person, because you know them so well, you know exactly what buttons to press, where to twist the knife. You find yourself bringing up something he said offhand when you were fifteen, or a row you once had when you were both a bit drunk after a party.

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He said I cared more about my career than I did about him, I said he should be supporting me in what I wanted to do. He said I was always undermining him, I said it wasn't my fault he had no ambition. I said he was being over-emotional, and he said at least one of us seemed to actually care. He brought up Viktor Krum, who I kissed _once_, when I was fifteen, before Ron and I even got together, and hadn't seen except once by accident, in seven years. I brought up Lavender, who he went out with at school for a few months, again, before we even got together, and who I know he never even really liked. We both said a lot of hurtful things. We rehashed every argument we'd ever had. We broke a lot of plates. It went on like this for weeks.

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By the time I finally left, I was just sick of the whole thing. Sick of screaming my throat raw. Sick of the endless, endless arguments that went round in predictable circles and never seemed to get resolved. Sick of bursting into tears all the time; at home, at work, on the tube, everywhere. Sick of him, too. I was just worn down by everything. It seemed to make sense to put a bit of distance between us, so I could see things more clearly. I knew that eventually he would come after me and we would sort things out and everything would be alright again. But he never did come.

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Days passed, then weeks. I had just moved to a new town, had a new flat, a new job. I threw myself into my work, bought furniture, put up pictures, just got on with things, because what else could I do? For the first few weeks I was just relieved there were no more arguments, grateful for the peace and quiet. I didn't even _want _to see him. I didn't want any more rows. Oh, I thought about him sometimes, of course I did. But then I'd remember some of the things he'd said and I'd get angry and upset all over again. And the whole time I was so sure he would come. I told myself he'd have to crack eventually. I _knew_ him, I knew he wouldn't let it go on like this indefinitely. I didn't think for one second about going to see him. That's what he does, he comes after me. He always has. Whoever's fault it is, he always comes after me and says that he is sorry. But this time… this time he never came.

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I think we both knew that it was up to me to make the first move. I should have gone to see him, I should have told him I was sorry. I should have gone back. Maybe other people might not have let it go on so long, but we're both stubborn, always have been. He wasn't going to come after me and beg. _I_ left, it was _my_ fault, I should go and see _him_. And I wasn't going to go crawling back. I thought he should understand that my work is important to me. He should support me in what I wanted to do. And anyway, he'd give in and come eventually, and I'd let myself be persuaded and everything would be alright again. He'd come, because he always came. Wouldn't he? Then after a while, when he didn't… I just carried on. For two years. Now, I don't know how I managed it.

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I look around this flat and it just reminds me of everything I lost. I should have gone to see him. He should have come to see me. We should never have let things get so out of hand. The whole thing started because I went for a job interview without telling him, and we argued about that, and then we started arguing about other things, and then everything just spiralled horribly out of control. I don't know what happened. I don't know how we managed to ruin something that I thought was unbreakable, that had survived twelve and a half years, that had survived a _war_, in only six weeks. We should have been able to work through it, we should have been able to get past it, we should have a _lot_ of fun making up. But we didn't, because I left.

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And Ron was my _life_. His family was my family, my friends were friends we had together, his sister was my only girl friend and confidante. When I left him I left all of that behind. I haven't seen any of them since. Well, there was the time about a month afterwards when Ginny turned up unexpectedly in my office and told me that Ron wasn't coping and I needed to come home, and I told her I wouldn't. The last thing she ever said to me was, "I will never forgive you for this."

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I bumped into Fred and George once as well, in Diagon Alley, about a year after I'd left. I could see them exchange worried glances when they saw me approach, but there was no way of avoiding each other. We said hello and then I said, "How is everyone?" and Fred said, stiffly, "Fine." I said, "Oh, good. _Everyone?_" and there was a pained silence and then George said, "If you want to know how _Ron_ is, just _ask_." I spluttered and protested but there didn't seem much point in pretending, so I just said, "How _is_ he?" George said, "Fine" and Fred added, pointedly, "_Now_." Then they both just stood and glared at me, so I made an excuse and left in a hurry. I haven't been back to London since.

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The only person I have any contact with at all now is Harry, and I only see him about once every two or three weeks. Our conversations are always slightly awkward because there's one rather large subject beginning with "R" that we can't talk about, that's still so much part of both our lives. We can't talk about the past at all. We can't talk about people we know, all we can talk about is work and things we've read about in the paper or seen on TV. And Harry doesn't even _own_ a TV, so even those subjects are quickly exhausted. The flat I live in now is owned by Muggles, so it has all the conveniences I never had and never missed when I lived with Ron. A television, microwave, fridge freezer, washing machine, even a power shower, for God's sake. It's funny how quickly you can get used to things again.

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It seems weird now to think I didn't watch television for years, but I didn't. I remember watching it once at my parents' house with Ron years ago, and how quickly he got bored. It was "Friends", I think. He kept driving everyone mad, asking "Who's this bloke again?" "Why don't they just go home for coffee when they only live round the corner?" "Is this supposed to be _funny?_" I had to drag him out of the room and outside for a walk eventually, just because I could see my mum getting more and more annoyed. He always did have a low boredom threshold.

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Oh God, he used to make me laugh so much. We used to make each other laugh, all the time. I can't remember the last time I laughed. It probably was at "Friends" or something like it, something not real. Friends. I don't have friends anymore. Well, I have Harry, but it's not the same. I know it's a cliché, but Ron was my best friend. We were best friends for six years before - well, before we became more than that. We used to tell people we'd been together for twelve years, because we _had_, we'd spent nearly every day together since we were eleven. They'd say, that's impossible, how old are you, early twenties? You can't have been together twelve years! Twelve and a half by the time I left. He was part of my life for so long - _so_ long - that being away from him, up here, on my own, was like being a different person.

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Maybe that's why I let it happen. It felt like it wasn't really happening, or that it was happening to someone else. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe I was in shock the whole time, and today… today was like having someone throw a glass of water in your face. I feel as though I just woke up from a bad dream. I can't believe it's been over two years. How did that happen? Why am I here? Why is he _there_? Why did I let things go on this long? Why am I only now getting round to painting this flat? Is it because it's never really felt like home? I hardly spend any time here, I just work, and sleep, and watch TV. Sometimes I leave the telly on at night because it drowns out all those night-time sounds that might otherwise keep me awake. I'd never lived on my own before and I kept waking up thinking, "What's that noise?" I even started sleeping with my wand under my pillow. After all we went through with Harry you'd think I could cope with a few burglars, wouldn't you?

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Ron used to say proudly that I wasn't afraid of anything, but I knew that wasn't true. It was only really true when he was there with me. I always felt safe then. Ron made everything okay. Ginny once said to me that we'd been through so much together there she didn't think there was anything we couldn't handle, but she was wrong.

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I thought about getting a cat once, just so I wouldn't be on my own. Another cat, I should say. I used to have a cat but he got run over. Ron found him all crumpled and bloody in the gutter and carried him home in his arms. Oh, I cried so much. Poor Crookshanks. The perils of living in London. Apparently something like 70 per cent of domestic cats are killed by road accidents. I must have read that somewhere. Anyway, my lease doesn't allow me to keep pets, and I live on the second floor, so it wouldn't have been practical even if it did. So it's just me, up here on my own, in this flat. It's much bigger than our old flat, but there's only me in it. I've lived here two years, but I don't think I've ever really _lived_ in it. It feels empty, this flat. Even with all my books in it and the new furniture that I bought, and all the files and cardboard boxes piled up everywhere that I brought home to work on at weekends.

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Ron never had much stuff but what he did have was always lying around all over the place, taking up room. Before we moved in together he said, "You never know, I might turn out to be really tidy", but of course he didn't. Big surprise. He used to say that all the time. It was one of his stupid little Ron phrases. I'd hear other people saying it sometimes and it always made me laugh. He had a sarcastic streak a mile wide. We could both be very dry, especially me. In fact, I remember he once said that I was so dry he could use me as a towel, and I said _anytime_, and he laughed so much at that he nearly choked on his drink.

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He was the only one who thought I was funny. Everyone thought _Ron_ was funny, he was well known for it, but nobody would ever have said that about me. Sensible, boring, serious Hermione. We'd be talking to people sometimes and one of us would say something that only we would get, and we'd both start laughing, or nudge each other, or just catch each other's eye and know exactly what we were laughing about. That kind of shorthand you develop when you've know each other as long as we had. We wouldn't even need to say anything. We were at a party once, and I caught his eye across the room and seconds later he appeared at my side with my coat, like he knew, just from that look, that I'd much rather be at home in my pyjamas with a nice cup of tea and my feet up, and that what I'd _really_ like was for him to bring me hot buttered toast and lie on the sofa with his head in my lap.

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We had a little flat in Archway, just off Highgate Hill. Some people might have tried to pretend it was really Highgate, but it wasn't, it was Archway. Even though we were renting it from wizards, we still couldn't have afforded to live in Highgate. It wasn't much, but it was ours, and I loved it. I miss it. I miss the patchwork quilt we had on the bed in Winter that Ron's mum made us as a moving in present, and the photographs of family and friends we put up on the wall, and all my books piled up from floor to ceiling, and his socks all over the floor. I miss him bringing me bacon sandwiches in bed on Sunday mornings. I even miss the stupid bright orange flashing Chudley Cannons season chart that Ron insisted on putting up on the back of the kitchen door every September. He'd fill in the results every Saturday evening, usually grumpily when they'd inevitably lost another match. How many weekends were ruined because he supported a team who hadn't won the League in over a century? Typical Ron. Always sticking up for the underdog.

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Oh, and I miss him airing his trainers on the window ledge. He laughed the first time he saw someone else doing it - "Muggles are _weird!_" - but then he started doing it as well. We'd be about to go out and he'd be running around the flat swearing like mad having completely forgotten he'd put them outside to air. I used to think he'd grow out of the swearing, but after a while I got used to it. Sometimes I'd tell him off, but mostly I'd just let it go. And anyway, he knew I didn't like it so he started apologising before I'd even said anything. "Where are my fucking shoes - sorry, Hermione!" Now I think about it, that was pretty sneaky of him, because then he still got to say it but I couldn't complain because he'd already got his apology in first. Damn him! He was always much smarter than he gave himself credit for.

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Oh, I miss that flat. Our lovely little flat with the tap that always dripped, and the bathroom window that was painted shut, and the creaky floorboard on the landing. I think one of the reasons we liked it so much was that we briefly lived in another flat nearby, but we had to move out after only two weeks. It was about half a mile further down the hill, closer to the tube and the shops and the noise and the people. It was alright for the first few days. We were just so excited to finally have our own place, even though it was above an off-licence and drunks would hang around outside. We used to lie in bed listening to them arguing in the street below, and laugh, and wonder aloud if we should call the police; "Only if we hear breaking glass or screaming…"

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It stopped being funny pretty quickly though. On the fourth day we lived there I came home and one of the drunks was sitting on our doorstep and started abusing me while I was trying to get my keys out of my bag. Ron said he didn't like the idea of me being out there in the dark and one of them trying to grab my bag, or worse. I said I'd fought Voldemort, and I thought I could cope with a few drunks. We argued, quite badly. And then two days later Ron got mugged on the way home, 200 yards from our front door. They were just kids, about fourteen or fifteen years old, and one of them had a kitchen knife. Ron said he knew he had his wand in his back pocket, but he calculated his chances of getting to it in time against the fact that they were clearly desperate or on something, otherwise why pull a knife on a young fit bloke of six foot three when there were plenty of easier targets around. So he decided not to risk it and just handed over his wallet. I was _very_ glad he did.

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And as for why they picked on him… I think there is a statistic that young men are much more likely to be the victims of violent crime than just about anyone else. And Ron is more conspicuous than he realises. He's tall and he has the reddest red hair you've ever seen, and just that alone seems to annoy people for no reason at all. Not to mention that he is a wizard and he sometimes dresses, well, in a way that some Muggles might consider to be slightly peculiar. So he _is_ an easy target. A couple of times in pubs or in the street complete strangers have started in on him for no reason at all. Maybe it's just a London thing, but I don't think so.

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God, he was shaking so badly when he came in I had to make him a cup of tea with four sugars in it. Of course, they didn't get much for their trouble because Ron never carries much Muggle money, only a ten pound note and a few coins, for emergencies. All they'd have got apart from that would have been some "funny foreign money" that no bank would exchange and a photograph of me in my pyjamas that for some reason Ron liked and carried around with him.

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Typical Ron, he was worried that they'd find the photo and see him go into our house, and they'd know I lived there too, so he walked around the block a couple of times in a daze before coming home. We started looking for somewhere else to live the very next day. So when we found our little flat we were just pathetically grateful. Ron used to complain because we had to walk up Highgate Hill to get to it, but I knew he didn't mind really. We'd go up to the Woods or the Heath for long walks on Sunday afternoons and Ron would always say, "Why can't we just Apparate there? What's the point of being a wizard if you have to walk everywhere?" I'd say, "The exercise is good for you," and he'd say, "Yeah, but we're going there for a _walk_, the exercise bit's already covered..." Or; "I can think of _much_ better ways to keep fit than walking up hills..." We used to be able to argue each other into a corner, but in a good way.

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I remember our first Winter in that flat. We moved in in late October. I know this because I remember walking up to Parliament Hill on Bonfire Night and watching the fireworks going off all over London, and the lights of the city spread out below us as far you could see. It really felt like the start of something wonderful. There was something incredibly romantic about it, standing on the top of the world, holding hands - even with thick gloves on! - as though we'd just arrived at the start of our lives and here were all the possibilities of the city opened up to us. I remember showing Ron how you could write your name in the air with a sparkler, and how fantastic he thought it was that the word would just hang there, your name written in light - "like magic!" Of course, it worked for _him_ - only three letters in his name! I'd start writing and by the time I'd got to the "M" the first three letters would have disappeared.

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I kept forgetting how many things I took for granted about the Muggle world Ron didn't know. Little things like not realising you had to put a pound coin in the slot to get a trolley at the supermarket. He never got the hang of the money the whole time we lived there. I don't imagine he's got his head around it _now_. He never liked getting the Tube either. He'd take buses if he had to use Muggle transport, so at least he could see where he was. This from someone who thought it was perfectly normal to travel by fireplace!

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Poor Ron, I'm sure that if it wasn't for me he wouldn't have lived in London at all. He'd drop these clanking great hints about us moving "back" to the country, even though I wasn't from the country, and had never expressed any desire to go and live there. "When we move back to the country", he'd say, "I think we should get a pig!" Or, when we were kept awake all night by the neighbours upstairs apparently playing basketball, "When we move back to the country, we won't have any neighbours!" I just humoured him; "Yes, Ron, maybe in ten years…"

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I always wanted to live in London, he never did. I wanted the bright lights, the noise, the people, to be in the centre of things. The drunks outside the door, the kids with knives, the noisy neighbours, the constant traffic noise, the cars that run over your pets… Now I live in a much smaller town, I find I don't even miss it, ironically. I miss our little flat. I miss _him_. And besides, I'm a witch, I can live anywhere in the country and Apparate to work in three seconds flat. He said that to me when I left; "Why do you have to go, why can't you stay here?" And he was right, I didn't have to leave. I was so sick of all the arguing that in a fit of pique I told him it was a condition of the job and I _had_ to move up here or they'd give it to someone else. I lied to him. And then, once I'd lied, I couldn't tell him that actually, I didn't have to go after all. I came up here to find somewhere to live, and I packed up all of my stuff, and before I even knew it, it was the day I was supposed to leave. I don't think I ever really thought I would have to go through with it. I don't think he ever really thought I would go.

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Funnily enough, that last day we didn't argue at all. I suppose we both realised this was actually it, I was leaving, and he wasn't going to be able to stop me, no matter what he said. He didn't speak to me all morning, actually. He watched me packing up the last of my things and tidying up and generally delaying it until I'd run out of excuses not to go. And finally, when I couldn't delay it any further, I told him, "Well, I'm off, then." As though I was just going away for the weekend! I went to give him a hug - I'm sure I thought I was being terribly adult about the whole thing - and he held me very tightly and said, hoarsely, "Don't leave". And I left.

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Harry didn't say as much, but I gather that after a few months Ron couldn't afford the rent on his own so he had to move into Harry and Ginny's spare room. It was supposed to be temporary, but he's still there. Knowing Ron, I bet he hates it. He's never liked what he sees as sponging off Harry, and I'm sure he must see it as charity, that Harry lets him stay because he feels sorry for him. Because I left him. I left him on his own. He's not good on his own. He mopes. He dwells on things. He talks himself down. I knew that, and I left him anyway. I can cope better; I'm an only child, I'm used to it. Ron's the second youngest of seven. He hates silence, it makes him nervous, always has. I suspect that's partly why he'd always be the one to come after me when we argued. I could always win just by refusing to continue the argument. I can hear him now, wailing, "Oh, don't give me the silent treatment! Anything but that!"I didn't speak to him once for about three months, and that just about killed him. Mind you, that was at school, and we weren't even going out then. I only started speaking to him again because he nearly died - _Oh_. I haven't thought about that in the longest time, and my stomach just gave a funny lurch remembering it. _Why_ is he coming? Why now? Why drag up all these feelings and memories I thought I had buried forever?

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_**Thanks for reading and please take just a few minutes to leave a review. Reviews are the only payment we fanfic writers get. - PB x**_

_**Next: Ron's back!**_

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	2. Chapter 2: The Same, But Different

**Chapter Two: The Same, But Different**

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I hardly slept last night. Memories and excitement and fear kept me awake and tossing and turning all night. I want to see him. I don't want to see him. I'm afraid to see him again. What if he's changed? He must have changed, it's been two years. I must have changed too.

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I keep imagining him with someone else. What she would be like. I went out with him for seven years and I don't even know what his type is. Does he _have_ a type? Before me he only went out with one other girl and she was nothing like me at all. One of those girls who thinks she needs to giggle and flick her hair to get a boy's attention. When they first started going out I was convinced that was why he picked her, because she was a real girl and I was just - a nothing, I suppose. Just a friend. No, just a _mate. _But actually afterwards, when we were starting to finally sort out the mess we'd made and admit our real feelings for each other, I realised that yes, he'd picked her because she was nothing like me, but only because he didn't think that I was remotely interested in him, and that I was secretly still seeing Viktor behind his back.

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Not that I ever really had been seeing Viktor. And not that it would have been behind his back even if I _was_, because at that stage he still hadn't told me how he felt about me. I told you it was a mess! He only went out with her half to make me jealous, and to show me that, look, _someone_ fancies me, even if you don't. And half, well, because he was sixteen and hadn't ever had a girlfriend before or even kissed anyone, and was paranoid about everyone else pairing off and him being left on his own. I suppose she showed some interest in him and he seized on that and was just grateful that anyone wanted to kiss him at all. Plus I think she offered to show him her tits, and what sixteen year boy turns down that opportunity? Oh, I can laugh about it _now_…

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Perhaps I could pretend I have a new boyfriend too. I don't, not remotely, but he wouldn't know that. Oh, I suppose Harry might have told him. Although it's possible I wouldn't have told Harry, after all, I didn't tell him about Jeff. Not that there was really anything to tell. Certainly nothing I'd have felt comfortable talking to Harry about. I met Jeff at work - where else? He seemed like a perfectly nice man. Nothing like Ron, of course. Not especially tall, slightly chunkily built, dark-haired and brown-eyed, a rather serious intellectual kind of man who wanted to take me to museums and the theatre. Jeff never cracked silly jokes or made terrible puns. Jeff drank black coffee. Jeff read newspapers, and not just for the Quidditch pages. Jeff was the kind of man I might have ended up with if I hadn't met Ron.

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Even at the time I was aware that I'd said yes to him purely because nothing about him reminded me of Ron in any way. And yet, everything reminded me of Ron at the same time. Everything he said or did just reminded me how Ron would have done it differently. He was nice enough, but there was no spark. I knew that straight away, but everyone kept telling me I should get back out there, and well, Jeff was just the first person who asked.

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Jeff cooked me dinner - he was a very good cook - and afterwards he kissed me on the sofa. Which reminded me that when Ron and I were first secretly going out, at school, we used to meet in the common room after everyone else had gone to bed and kiss on the sofa. Kiss, and other things, too. Exploring. Everything was new for both of us. When Jeff kissed me, and pushed me back on the sofa underneath him, I kissed him back, but I felt nothing. He got me down to my underwear and I'm sure in another five minutes I'd have let him, but I wasn't giving anything back.

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And then he reached around and unhooked my bra - so expertly I didn't even realise he'd done it at first - and I started laughing because I remembered that the first time Ron tried to get my bra off it took him so long I eventually had to give him directions. I started laughing and Jeff asked me what was funny, and of course, I could hardly explain. But it made me realise I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed at anything. Ron used to make me laugh all the time. Every day. And now I was laughing just remembering him. So I told Jeff I wasn't ready to sleep with him yet, and he took it rather badly, to say the least. He completely blanked me at work after that too, which I rather felt vindicated my decision.

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Perhaps I was naive, but I honestly thought we were just going out as friends, as intellectual equals. I never really thought these _were_ dates. It was only afterwards I realised perhaps Jeff hadn't seen it that way. Well, I realised that the second he stuck his tongue in my mouth, but you know what I mean. I had never been on a proper date before, I didn't know what the etiquette was. I didn't know the rules. Had I been inadvertently giving out the wrong signals? Did three dates equal sex? I'd never had to play those kind of games before. The only date I'd ever been on in my life was when I asked a boy at school to a Christmas party for the express purpose of making Ron jealous. And as I spent the entire evening trying to _avoid _my date, I don't think it really counts.

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Ron and I never really dated in the proper sense of the word. We were just friends, and then we were a couple, there was never an in-between stage with trips to the cinema and restaurants and go-karting or whatever it is people do when they go on dates these days. Jeff took me to an exhibition and afterwards we went for coffee, and I honestly didn't think I'd said or done anything to lead him on, but obviously he did. Maybe it _was _my fault. Maybe I _had_ somehow led him on. Maybe when he invited me around to his place and offered to cook me dinner what he actually meant was, "Do you want to come back to mine and have sex with me?" and I was just too stupid to realise it.

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Afterwards I put my clothes back on and walked the two and a half miles home - I suppose I needed the time to think. And by the time I got to my door I was just in floods of tears, I couldn't even explain why. It was the first time I'd cried since - well, since Ron. I felt stupid, and embarrassed, and ashamed. And ridiculous.

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For a few weeks after that there were a couple of times that I thought about contacting Ron, but it had been so long by then - eighteen months - that I didn't even know what I would say to him. I was with someone else and it reminded me of you? _No_. So I didn't, and eighteen months became two years, and then - Harry's letter. Everything just came flooding back.

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Tonight is the first night in as long as I can remember where I don't know what will happen. I work all week and I take more work home with me to fill up my evenings. I go to bed at ten every night. On Fridays I drink a whole bottle of red wine all to myself and fall asleep in front of _Desperate Housewives_. On Saturdays I clean the house, and on Sundays I go to my mum and dad's and we drive out into the country for a nice walk and a pub lunch. My parents have long since ceased asking whether there's a new man in my life. I used to have a stock answer - I'm too busy for that, accompanied by a light laugh, as though I'd love to be in a relationship but bloody work was taking up all my time.

---

­

The truth is it takes up all my time because I want it to. What else would I do? Sometimes I even go into the office at weekends. At least I'm busy, at least I'm doing something. At least I don't have time to sit and think. I've heard people use that expression - too busy to think - and it always sounded like a complaint, but now I think maybe it's an excuse. It's like stepping off a roundabout. Once you step off, you can't get back on again. I needed to stay on that roundabout. Harry's letter made me step off. All I've done for the last 24 hours is sit alone and think, and now I don't know anything anymore. I don't even know if I want to see him. I don't know how I'll feel. I don't know if tonight will be the worst mistake of my life, or if I already made that, two years ago. I don't know whether he'll hate me, or if he'll even come. And then what? If he doesn't come? What am I supposed to do then, just carry on? Get back on the roundabout?

---

I had a pregnancy scare once. I was 21, far too young, the war was barely over… It was just too soon. I knew it was a mistake and that I didn't want the test to be positive, but then, when it _wasn't_... it was like a death, almost. I cried for two weeks. I had started to imagine what the baby would have looked like, whether the poor thing would get saddled with my hair or Ron's feet. I was picking out names. Joseph, for a boy, because it's six letters, like Ronald, but you can shorten it to three. Joseph Harry. Joe. I started to picture us all together as a family, me reading to it at night, Ron teaching it to play Quidditch in the garden. The garden we didn't even _have_. I think that if he doesn't come it will feel like that. A chance, a hope, a future that could have been - gone, lost, forever.

---

He'll be here any minute. I haven't been able to eat a thing all day and I can't stop pacing. I've spent the day moving the furniture into the centre of the room and covering everything with dustsheets. It's the first day off I've had in two years. To be honest, I almost wish I'd gone to work, at least then I'd have some distraction. My head is spinning and my stomach has butterflies in it. My legs feel shaky and weak. Oh, God, I wonder, is it too late to send Harry an owl asking him not to bring Ron?

Oh, there's the door! He's here. He's_ here_.

---

I pull open the door and Harry is standing there, dressed for painting in old clothes, and with a sheepish sort of expression on his face. He raises his hand slightly in greeting and I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him on the cheek. And that's when I see Ron, over Harry's shoulder. He stops dead at the top of the stairs when he sees me. Our eyes meet. For three long seconds his pale blue eyes hold my gaze. He says, quietly, "Hello," then looks away. I say, "Hello" back, but I can barely hear my own voice. He looks the same, but different. He's had his hair cut really short, almost a crewcut. It suits him, actually. It makes his stare more piercing, or maybe it just feels like that to me. He's wearing a new jacket too. _Oh, God_. Oh, God, I don't think I can do this.

---

I _have_ to control myself. Putting on a big smile and my cheeriest voice I usher them both in. The sleeve of Ron's new jacket brushes against my arm as he walks past me. They both stand in my front room looking awkward. Ron has his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. Every bone in his body is screaming that he would rather be anywhere else but here. His shoulders are hunched and his head is bowed, staring at his shoes. I remember when he bought those shoes. They're just ordinary brown lace-ups, but he bought them in a Muggle shop in town and he couldn't believe how much choice there was. Fifty different pairs of brown lace-up shoes. He took ages to make up his mind.

---

I remember the brown corduroy trousers he's wearing too. He wore them once when we went for a long walk on Hampstead Heath. I remember it because we found this huge old dead tree. It was completely hollow inside, and Ron climbed in and then pulled me up too and it was amazing, to actually be inside a tree. It was so big inside Ron didn't even have to stoop, just bend his head slightly. Other people had obviously climbed up here before because there were hundreds of names and dates and initials carved in the bark inside the tree. We kept laughing because it was just madness - "We're inside a tree!" - and then we kissed, and Ron said, "Do you think people have had sex in this tree?" I said, "Almost certainly" and he raised his eyebrows and grinned at me and said, "How about it, then?" and I pretended to be outraged.

---

We didn't, of course - it was broad daylight and there were lots of families with small children about, but I secretly quite liked the idea that we might come back when it was dark and quiet, if we could find it again. There was something magical about it, as though you could only ever find it once, and when you went back it would have gone. I know he was wearing the same trousers because I remember he looked a bit like a tree himself. And because we Apparated straight back to the flat afterwards, so he wasn't wearing them for very long! And now he's wearing a new jacket that doesn't hold any memories for me at all, and he's cut his hair, and it's these little things that make a lump come into my throat and I know I have to get out of here now before I lose control of myself completely.

"So," I say, brightly, "Shall I make some tea before we start?"

"Great!" says Harry, far too cheerily.

I look at Ron, but he is just staring at the floor. My eyes fill with tears and I rush into the kitchen and pull the door closed behind me so I can hide my face. Unfortunately I can still hear them.

Ron, in a furious whisper: "I _told_ you this was a mistake!"

Harry, so quietly I can hardly hear him: "I'm sorry. You were right, OK? I don't know what I was thinking…"

Ron: "I can't do this!"

Harry: "Look, we'll just have some tea, and do what we came here to do and then leave, alright? It's only for a few hours."

Ron, angrily: "You owe me a very large drink for this!"

I start deliberately opening cupboards and banging the cups, just to remind them that I'm still here, and the whispers stop. I have to hold on to the kitchen worktop for support. He doesn't want to be here. He didn't want to see me. He only came because Harry made him, and now he can't even look at me. I take a deep breath and go back out there and force a smile on my face: "Ron; milk, two sugars, still?"

­

I realise immediately that I shouldn't have asked this. It's such a small thing, but having to ask him how he takes his tea after all this time is a painful thing. He stares at me unblinkingly and finally just nods slowly. This time it's me who has to look away.

---

When I come back out with the tea and a plate of biscuits they are both sitting in armchairs. Ron is slumped in the one furthest away from the other two, the one I don't really use, because nobody comes to visit me here except Harry and my parents. They are the only reason I have three chairs rather than two, although now the very fact of me having three chairs seems horribly apt, as though as I did it unknowingly for the three of _us_. We sip our tea in near-silence, Harry and I occasionally making attempts at conversation that spark up and then die again. Ron just sits and drinks his tea and doesn't look up or speak at all.

"So," I say brightly, after a particularly long and painful silence, "How are you… both?"

Of course, I only saw Harry less than a week ago, so we all know what I am really asking.

"Fine!" says Harry, just as brightly.

I look at Ron. He looks at me.

"Fantastic," he says, sarcastically.

I pretend that I haven't noticed and take him at his word. "Oh, good!"

There is another painfully long silence.

"So, how are _you_, Hermione?" Harry asks, an edge of desperation now in his voice.

"Fine, thanks! Busy at work, you know how it -"

Ron stands up suddenly and we both look at him. "Where's your loo?" he says, still pointedly not looking at me. I tell him, and he slips off his jacket and puts it over the back of the chair. He is wearing a faded old black t-shirt and his face and arms look especially pale against the black. He never used to wear black. It washes him out, makes him look tired. It was one of the things I used to like about him, that he didn't care that you "weren't supposed to" wear red if you had red hair, he just liked red. He used to go about in Winter in his Chudley Cannons scarf and hat and they were bright orange and clashed _terribly_ with his hair, it would almost make your eyes hurt just to look at him sometimes. It makes me smile to remember it, and then all at once incredibly sad. I watch him disappearing up the stairs to the bathroom, and when I look back Harry is watching me intently.

"_What?" _

"I'm an idiot," he says, shaking his head, "I shouldn't have invited him, not without asking you first. I didn't think it would be this bad."

"No," I say, more bravely than I feel, "No, it's fine."

He raises his eyebrows at me.

"Really," I say, "It's fine. It'll be fine."

"If you say so."

We sit there in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea. Finally I ask, "How is he _really?_"

He shrugs. "Alright. Been better, been worse."

I stare miserably at Ron's abandoned coat on the other chair. "He didn't want to come, did he?"

Harry laughs. "Oh, could you tell?"

There is something else I want to ask now that Ron is out of the room but I'm not sure I want to know the answer. "Is he... is he seeing anyone?"

He looks at me disbelievingly. "Are you seriously asking me if he's seeing anyone?"

"Well… he _might_ be."

"No," he says, and there's a new coldness in his voice now, "No, he isn't seeing anyone. Would it make you feel better if he was?"

I'm so shocked I feel my whole body go cold. I stutter, "What? No! What do you…? I don't know… maybe… yes."

Harry looks guilty. He mutters, "Sorry, that was… I shouldn't have…" and tails off.

There is another long silence, and then he says, so suddenly it makes me jump, "I _knew_ neither of you would be able to get past this!"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on! Why do you _really_ want to know if he's seeing anyone?"

"What? I just want him to be happy, that's all!"

"Oh, so you _do_ care about him?"

"That's not fair, Harry."

He sighs and leans back in his chair. "You're right. I'm sorry. I know it can't be _all_ your fault, no matter what Ginny thinks." He gives a short laugh. "She's going to kill me for this, I didn't tell her I was bringing Ron."

He glances up at the ceiling and I follow his gaze. We both realise Ron has been gone for rather a long time. On cue, Ron himself comes stomping down the stairs and then just hovers behind his chair, tapping his fingers on the back of it, defiantly neither looking at us nor making any comment on the tense silence in the room. He must know we've been talking about him. Harry drains the last of his tea and stands up too.

"Yeah, so we should probably get on… have you got paintbrushes?"

---

The rest of the evening passes mostly in awkward silence. I watch him paint when I know he isn't looking, the way I used to watch him all the time at school. I watch him running his hand through his now very short hair, and wiping paint drips off his trousers. He doesn't look at me at all, he just gets on with the painting. He doesn't smile, he doesn't speak. Harry seems to understand this and only asks him questions that can be answered with a nod or a shake of the head. Harry and I talk only of Muggle things, because this at least is one subject that won't involve Ron.

Finally, after a few hours, it is finished, and we all stand back to admire our handiwork.

"Not bad," Harry says, "Although I still say it would have been quicker to use our wands."

"I just thought it would be more fun," I say, and my words seems to echo in the silence that follows.

I can hear Ron's voice in my head, dripping with sarcasm, "Yeah, it's been a barrel of laughs."

---

I think I might be grateful even for that, for anything that would show that at least there's something left of the old Ron, the Ron I used to know, who would definitely have found this fun. If the two of us had been painting our old flat I know he'd have flicked paint at me and made stupid jokes, and we'd probably just have given up and gone to bed hours ago. I can't bear to think that he doesn't smile and make his stupid Ron jokes anymore, and that it's my fault he's like this. I hope that it's just tonight, because I'm here, that he looks so miserable.

---

I go to fetch us all beers from the kitchen and we stand there drinking them in silence, me pretending not to notice the pointed looks that pass between them. Ron drinks his beer down almost in one go and immediately glances towards the door where his coat is now hanging. My heart sinks. He can't wait to leave. He's hardly looked at me all night, he's only said two words to me, and now he can't get out of here fast enough. I feel a rising tide of panic in my chest. I haven't seen him for two years, I might not see him again for God knows how long. I might never see him again, the way this evening has gone. I can't let him go without saying _something_ - sorry? I clear my throat.

"Ron -"

They both turn to look at me.

"Thank you for coming tonight. I appreciate how difficult it must have been for you."

Ron gives a short, bitter laugh. "Do you?"

"Yes, and I - Harry, could you give us a minute?"

Harry looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "Er…"

Ron and I are just staring at each other. Harry looks from one to the other as though he can't decide whether he should stay or go. Ron breaks eye contact first. He shakes his head, mutters, "Sod this…" and takes three long strides to the door, where he pulls his jacket on and wrenches the door open.

"Coming, Harry?"

I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. "Don't leave!"

Ron hesitates in the doorway. For the first time all evening something approaching a grin flickers on his face, then dies almost as suddenly.

"I seem to remember I said that to you once," he says, coldly, and walks out, not even bothering to slam the door behind him.

Harry shrugs and tries to look apologetic, mutters, "Sorry, I'll call you!" and follows him out. In the silence that follows I feel my body start to shake with the sudden release of tension.

---

Ron was here, in this flat that until tonight held no memories of him. And now everything seems to have the imprint of him on it. He sat in that chair. He held that cup. He painted that wall. His coat hung on that peg. He dripped paint just there, on the carpet. But he's not here, and suddenly this flat seems empty, and I realise it's always been empty. I just didn't know what it was missing. What _I_ was missing. He's gone and suddenly this room seems to have a Ron-shaped hole in it that wasn't there before. Somehow I make it to the bedroom before my legs give way and I throw myself down on the bed and sob and sob until the pain in my chest is so heavy I feel as though it might burst open and my heart spill out.

-----

* * *

_**Thanks for reading and please review! - PB x**_

* * *


	3. Chapter 3: The Long Night

**Chapter Three: The Long Night**

**-----**

I wake suddenly some hours later and can't work out why. It's still dark but I have a nagging feeling something is wrong. I glance at my alarm clock automatically: 2.47 a.m. Why am I awake? Has something happened? What's that noise? Then I realise. Someone is knocking on my front door. Instantly, I know it must be him. Who else would it be? I switch on the bedside light and throw back the covers and practically run to the front door and wrench it open.

He almost falls forward onto me, so he must have been standing there just leaning on the door for ages. I notice that he smells strongly of the pub, of Firewhisky and stale cigarettes, but funnily enough I don't mind. At least I know that he's alive and he's real and he's _here_.

"Harry said I shouldn't come back," he says, waving his arms about expansively - I notice his voice is slightly slurred too - "But you know me, I never bloody listen!"

I say, automatically, "You're drunk!" and immediately wish I hadn't, for the judgement implied that I don't feel. If I'd had any alcohol in the house, I'd be in an even worse state myself.

He just gives a short laugh and says, "Well, you don't think I'd have come if I'd been _sober_, do you?"

His eyes travel quickly over my nightclothes; an old t-shirt and knickers and nothing else, and it gives me goosebumps. Nobody has looked at me like that in so long.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he says, full of alcohol-induced bravado.

He pushes past me into the room and drunkenly bumps into my hip as he does so. I follow him into the flat, and watch him pull his jacket off and let it fall to the floor in a heap, not really noticing where he has put it. I pick it up - it smells even worse than he does - and hang it up on the peg. He throws himself into the nearest armchair and I nearly laugh out loud. It's a different one to the chair he was sitting in earlier so now that's just one more thing in this room that has the imprint of Ron on it. Instead I say, trying to keep my voice calm, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Have you got any coffee?"

"You don't drink coffee."

"Yeah, well, maybe I started."

For some reason my eyes fill with tears and I have to run to the kitchen to hide my face. Why is it always the small things that hurt so much? He never used to drink coffee. He's cut his hair. He's got a new jacket. It hurts me to think that there are new things about him that I don't know. I used to know everything.

In the kitchen I wipe my eyes on a tea towel and just stand there, dazed, waiting for the kettle to boil. Then his voice close to my ear makes me jump. The kitchen is very small and he's standing right behind me. I can feel his warm breath on my neck. "Can I use your loo?" he asks, and I nod, unable to trust myself to speak, and hear him bumping into the walls as he stumbles upstairs.

---

When I come out from the kitchen a few minutes later he's standing at the bottom of the stairs looking nervous. He's obviously dunked his head under the cold tap because his hair is damp and he looks a lot clearer-eyed. The bravado he had when he came in has gone now. We look at each other.

He says, "I think I should go."

I say, "Well, alright, but at least drink your coffee first."

It's such an obvious trick that I can't believe he will fall for it, but he hesitates, then just says, "Alright" and comes over to take the coffee from my hand. He waits to see where I sit and then goes and sits in the chair farthest away from mine. We sit there for a few minutes drinking our coffee until the silence starts to become unbearable, but I can't think of anything to say. Eventually, just because it still bothers me and it's the least contentious thing I can think of, I say, "You've cut your hair."

He laughs. "Yeah, d'you like it? It's a bit drastic, isn't it? I think the hairdresser was a bit deaf."

I tell him, "I do like it, actually. It suits you."

He stops smiling and resumes staring down into his mug. He never could take a compliment.

There is another long silence during which we both stare at the floor and sip our coffee, and then he says, "So… I like what you've done with the place. Really good paint job."

I look up at him, amazed, and can't stop the smile that spreads across my face. "Is that a _joke_, Ron Weasley?"

He grins at me, and my heart soars. "It's an attempt. I'm a bit out of practice." His face darkens again. "I mean -" He sighs and leans back in the chair. "I had all these things I wanted to say, but now I'm here…"

He looks at me, and seems unable to finish the sentence. "Maybe I should just go." He glances across at me as though expecting me to talk him out of it, but I don't say anything, and he doesn't move. Eventually he seems to resign himself to having to talk to me and asks, "So how've you been, Hermione?"

My heart gives a funny little lurch to hear him speak my name again after all this time. His accent always travels a couple of hundred miles closer to Devon when he's had a few drinks.

"That's a funny question. If you'd asked me yesterday I'd have said I've been alright. But _now_…"

He nods, and seems to understand. "So you're _happy_, are you?"

I notice the edge of bitterness in his voice, and choose my words carefully. "I wouldn't say that."

"_Good,_" he says, harshly.

I bite my lip and look away from him, not trusting myself to speak. I can feel tears pricking the back of my eyes. He must really hate me to say that, and to say it with such anger and satisfaction, almost.

"Aren't you going to ask me if _I'm_ happy?" he says, not taking his eyes off me.

I shake my head. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't you want to know? Or maybe you just don't _care_ anymore, is that it?"

"No, I -"

"I mean, have you even thought about me at _all _these last two years?"

"Of course I have!"

"Yeah, _obviously.._."

"Ron -"

"Oh, _forget_ _it!" _

-----

I watch him drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. He seems like he wants to say something else but can't bring himself to. He keeps glancing up, not quite catching my eye, and then looking quickly back down again, back at his knees, or the floor. Anywhere but at me. I keep quiet, waiting for him to tell me what he came all this way to say. He must have had this conversation a million times in his head, wondering what it would be like to see me again, thinking of all the things he wanted to say to me, all the ways he could punish me, make me suffer, make me understand what it's been like. What I did to him.

And I know that this is coming, like the dark clouds of an approaching storm hovering overhead, but I don't care. I _want_ him to tell me. I want to get everything out in the open. I don't even care if we wind up screaming at each other, I just can't bear to be left alone again, in the silence. He seems to read my mind then because he catches my eye and stops tapping his fingers and immediately starts jiggling his knee instead, as though all that energy has to come out _somewhere_. I just sit and wait for the storm to break.

---

"What did you think," he demands, suddenly, "When you got Harry's letter? I bet you hoped I wouldn't turn up, didn't you?"

"I didn't know what I hoped. I was scared to see you again. I didn't know what I would _feel_. What did _you_ think, when Harry asked you to come?"

"I thought, _'You've got to be fucking kidding me!'_ But right now I'm more interested in what _you _thought..."

"I thought much the same… at first. But then the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I _did_ want to see you. But I couldn't understand why you were coming _now_, after two years. I thought… I thought perhaps you'd met someone."

He gives a short laugh. "Chance'd be a fine thing!" He corrects himself swiftly. "Not that I was, you know, sitting around waiting for you to come back or anything."

"I didn't think you _were_, Ron."

"Yeah, well… so long as we've got that cleared up…"

-----

He doesn't ask about me, I notice. Whether _I've_ been seeing anyone. Maybe he just doesn't want to know, for fear of the answer. When we were together I couldn't mention any man's name in conversation without him immediately wanting to know who he was, establishing whether he was a threat or not. "Dave says -" "Who's Dave?" "Just a bloke at work." "How old is he?" "I don't know, late forties I suppose." "OK, carry on." "I was talking to Martin -" "Martin?" "He's _gay_, Ron." "Oh." And then he'd visibly relax and never mention it again. I used to find it frustrating, but then I realised it wasn't that he didn't trust me; it was all about him still - _still! _- feeling that he wasn't quite good enough for me, and that maybe I might wake up one day and realise that I could do better. He was like that when he was fourteen and he'll be like that when he's forty. People don't change, not really. He's still the same gawky teenage boy who would go beetroot if I caught him staring at me and was so insecure it took him three years to pluck up the courage to ask me out. And now it's nine years later and I'm still sitting here waiting for him to put his feelings into words and wishing I knew what was going on in his head.

-----

I look across at him sitting hunched forward in his chair with his head in his hands and wonder how we got here. Two unhappy people who can't even look at each other.

"Ron… speak to me."

He doesn't look up.

"_Please_…"

"I can't," he mumbles into his hands. "If I start, I'll never stop."

"Then don't stop. Tell me."

"What's the point?"

He says this last so harshly I am somewhat taken aback. In the ensuing silence I suddenly blurt out something I would never have said aloud if I'd thought about it beforehand, for fear of the answer:

_"Do you still want me?" _

He looks up and stares at me. "What?"

We look at each other. Eventually he glances away, down at his feet, and mutters, "That's not really the question, is it?"

"Yes, it is. That _is_ the question. Because if you _do_…"

My words hang in the ether.

"You don't get to ask questions," he says, angrily, "You _left_. I'm the one who should be asking the bloody questions."

"Then ask them."

He watches me for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. I am expecting him to ask the same question, "Do you still want me?", to which I already know my answer, but instead he just smiles sadly to himself and shakes his head, and asks, "Have you got anything to eat?"

"Have -?"

"I've only had two packets of peanuts since lunchtime. Harry said you'd probably lay on some pizza or something."

I note the way he manages to make even this sound like an accusation.

"I've probably got some bread. I could make you some toast if you like."

"Yeah, that'll do. Thanks," he adds, grudgingly.

-----

In the kitchen all I have are one last forlorn slice of bread and a single crust. I don't really cook anymore, now there's just me here. I live on ready meals and those bags of chopped vegetables you can steam in the microwave. In the back of the fridge I find a tiny lump of hard cheese and cut it into the thinnest slices I can for cheese on toast. He sits and eats it in silence, not even looking up. When he has finished he sits staring down at the plate in his lap for the longest time, and then he says, so suddenly it makes me jump;

_"_Why did you leave?"

I am temporarily stumped. _"Why?" _

He nods, and waits, watching me intently.

"I - I don't know. I can hardly remember."

_"Try." _

His voice is bitter, and it makes me tremble.

"All those stupid arguments we had. I just wanted to get away from them for a while."

"From _me_, you mean."

"Yes. But I never meant for it to go on so long. Things just got out of hand. I - I told a lie, and after that I just couldn't back down. I didn't want to admit I'd lied to you, because I knew how hurt you'd be, and because I was afraid the arguments would just start up again and this time we wouldn't be able to get past it."

He leans forward in his chair. "What was the lie?"

We stare at each other. I take a deep breath. "Remember that we'd been arguing nearly every day for weeks. And in the midst of one of those arguments you shouted at me that if I thought you were holding me back then why didn't I just leave? And I was so angry and upset I shouted back that, fine, if that's what you wanted, and actually, they'd offered me a live-in job, and I wasn't going to take it but now maybe I would. I just said it in the heat of the moment.

And - that was the lie. It wasn't a live-in job at all. I didn't _have_ to leave. And I never expected I'd actually have to go. I was sure we'd sort it out before it came to that. And then, when we didn't… I had to go through with it. I left because I couldn't tell you I'd lied about the job, and because I was sure you'd come after me and everything would be alright again. Now I'm sure that if I hadn't left we'd have got through it. It would just have been a rough patch -"

"_Rough_ patch?!" he says, incredulously.

"Muggles call it the seven year itch. A lot of couples go through difficulties after the same sort of period. It's long enough for one or both to wonder if they still want to be in the relationship come ten ­years, and not so long that if they left they couldn't make a new life for themselves with someone else."

"And that's what you thought, is it?"

"What?"

"That you didn't still want to be in the relationship come ten years. That you could make a better life with someone else."

"No. No, that's not what I thought at all. Not for a second. I never had a moment's doubt about _us_. I knew we'd always be together."

He gives a snort of disbelief. "Yeah, well, I thought I knew that too..."

"But, Ron, I never wanted anyone else. That's not why I left. I thought it would only be for a few weeks. I thought that once we'd both calmed down I'd be able to come back and everything would be okay again."

"Well, why didn't you, then?"

"Come back?"

He nods.

"Because you didn't come after me."

"Oh, so it's _my_ fault then, is it?"

"No! It was just me being stubborn and not wanting to apologise first and thinking that you should apologise to me. I was sure you'd come after me and say you were sorry and beg me to come back…"

He gives a short laugh. "_Beg_ you? Why would I do that?"

"Because you're not quite as pig-headed as I am. Because I knew how much you loved me and I knew you'd hate being on your own, and -"

"Well, if you _knew_ it, why didn't you come back, why did you leave me on my own? For _two years!_"

"I know, and I'm sorry. There's no excuse. I don't really have an explanation."

He stares at me. "You don't really have an explanation?"

"Well, no -"

"_You don't really have an explanation?" _

"Listen, everything was so confusing. I was upset and angry. And I was busy at work, too, before I knew it a month had gone by, and I started to doubt whether you would come at all."

"Well, why didn't you come and see _me_, then?"

"I don't know. Stubbornness, maybe. I was living in a sort of daze. I have been this whole time, I think. I go to work, come home, work some more, go to bed, get up and go to work again."

"So you didn't think about me at all?"

"Of course I did. And - I've just remembered. Ginny came to see me."

"_Ginny_ did?"

"Yes, at work. We argued, and I got angry again, and I'm afraid that's probably why I didn't come back, why a month became two, then three, then six…"

He shakes his head. "So what did my dear sister have to say for herself?"

"Oh, it wasn't her fault. She just told me a few home truths that I didn't want to hear. She said - she said you weren't coping very well, and I needed to come home."

"But you didn't."

"No. I was angry with her for interfering, and I was angry because she came to see me and you didn't. I was angry with you all over again."

"But I didn't even know she'd come to see you! I thought you didn't _want_ me to come!"

"I _know_, Ron."

"Well, then, how was it my fault?"

"You did say some terrible things to me too, you know. I know it was my decision to leave, but you helped me make it."

"I asked you not to go!"

"I know, but it was too late by then. It seemed like the best thing to do at the time."

"Not to me, it didn't."

"Oh, would you rather I'd stayed and we carried on screaming at each other?"

"No, I'd rather you'd stayed and we'd sorted it out."

I open my mouth to retort, but there isn't anything to say. He's right. I should have stayed. I should have tried to sort things out between us. We should have been able to get through this. Avoiding his gaze, I mumble that I have to go to the toilet, and leave the room. Briefly it occurs to me that maybe when I come back down he won't be there, but by then it's too late. Besides, I tell myself, if he was going to go, he'd have gone by now, wouldn't he? He must _want_ to be here. Or maybe, says the small voice of doubt in my head, he just wants some answers so he can move on with his life. Or perhaps he just wants to punish you.

-----

When I come back downstairs Ron is in the kitchen making another cup of coffee. I stand in the doorway and watch him watching the kettle boil. I can't bring myself to go in; the kitchen is barely big enough for one person, and I don't think I can bear to be physically that close to him. He suddenly realises that I am standing there, and turns around, leaning back against the kitchen cabinet. We look at each other.

"The first cup didn't seem to be working," he says, unnecessarily.

I just nod. Now that he's almost touching distance away from me I feel somewhat exposed in my night things, but to cover myself up would be worse, I think. It would be saying to him, I don't want you to look at me, I don't want you to think of me in that way anymore. I might as well just tell him there's no hope for us, that it's all over. But I wish he wouldn't keep looking at me the way he is now. It makes me feel uncomfortable. It makes me feel a hundred things I haven't felt in a long, long time. I fold my arms defensively over my chest, and he lifts his eyes to mine. The faintest ghost of an ironic smile appears on his face.

"If you're cold," he says, "Why don't you just put a jumper on?"

"I'm fine."

He shrugs and turns back to the kettle. "If you say so…"

-----

I watch him pouring out the water and remember that in fifth year I used to sit behind him in one lesson, and how much I used to enjoy that view. His skinny shoulders in that thin cotton school shirt and the way that, because he never tucked his shirt in, it would ride up a bit at the back, giving me a nice little glimpse of an inch of pale skin. He's not quite as skinny as he used to be, but he's still all arms and legs, and I like that. When we first started sleeping together and were discovering each others' bodies for the first time I was slightly in awe of the sharp angles of his shoulder blades and elbows and hipbones. Especially his hipbones. Because I knew it was a part of him no-one else would ever see, and it made me shiver.

-----

And I remember even further back, the first time he took his shirt off in front of me, how I had an irresistible urge to laugh out loud because he looked like nothing so much as Neapolitan ice-cream. His face was pink with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement, his arms were brown and freckly, but his body was paper-white. I wanted to laugh, but stopped myself just in time, because he looked so nervous. I can hardly believe there was ever a time we were that physically awkward around each other. It seems like centuries ago.

-----

He turns around then and is momentarily startled to find me watching him so intensely. He makes the "T" sign with his fingers, and I nod, and suddenly a feeling of overwhelming sadness comes over me. Here we are, making tea in the kitchen like a normal couple, as though nothing's wrong between us, when in fact, _everything's_ wrong. It may never be right again. Ron hands me the cup without looking me in the eye, and we play the same little game of musical chairs as before. I stand aside to let him past me into the front room. He waits to see where I sit, and then goes and sits as far away from me as possible, and the awful silence descends once more.

-----

Ron is sitting hunched forward in the chair with his hands over his face. I am seized with an irresistible urge to stand up and pull my t-shirt over my head. He'd have to look at me _then_, wouldn't he? There was a moment - hardly more than a second - when I answered the door to him and we looked at each other, that I thought he was going to take me in his arms there and then, and kiss me, and push me right through the front room, into my bedroom, and down onto the bed. I wouldn't have stopped him if he had.

-----

It would have been a mistake, of course. He'd still hate me. He might still have left. But, no, the moment passed - it was probably all in my head anyway - and now he can't even look at me. I wish he would look at me. There was a time when he couldn't take his eyes off me. Now we're just sitting here in silence and neither of us has said a word to each other in fifteen minutes. I think this may possibly be the longest we've gone without speaking in the entire time we've known each other. Usually you can't shut us up. I hate that this is what we've become.

Before I know it tears are streaming down my face.

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't answer, or give any sign that he has even heard me.

"Ron?"

He lifts his head slightly and I can see that his eyes are red too.

"Don't do this to me," he mumbles, "Harry told me I shouldn't come back. I should've listened to him. I should've known. I just thought… it couldn't be any worse that it was already. But it _is_. Seeing you..."

He breaks off, then gets up and walks into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water and, I suspect, to wipe his eyes away from my view. He hovers in the doorway and we look at each other.

"I'm an idiot," he says, in a defeated sort of voice, "I knew this would only make it worse and I came anyway."

"I'm glad you did. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I got Harry's letter."

"But, apparently, not at all for the two years before that."

"Oh, Ron, that's not true!"

"Well, obviously it _is_, or you'd have come to see me, wouldn't you?"

"You didn't come to see me either!"

"Oh, _that's_ right, I was supposed to come running after you and _beg_ you to come back, wasn't I?"

He is starting to get angry again, I can feel it, and my heart beats a little faster.

"Do you know what Harry said?" he says, defiantly, "When he was trying to talk me out of coming back here? He said I'd only be doing it out of a mix of misguided hope, stupidity and because I haven't had any for ages. Oh, and revenge. Well, he didn't put it like that, exactly. He said -"

He stops, and fixes me with a steady, challenging gaze, "He said I'd be fucking you because you fucked me over."

The harsh word, and the intensity of feeling behind it, makes me flinch, but I can't look away. "Would you?" I ask quietly.

He shrugs and looks down at his hands. "I don't know. Maybe."

I feel very hot all of a sudden. "Is that what you thought would happen? Tonight?"

"I thought a lot of things. They made a lot more sense when I was drunk."

Silence.

"Why did you let me in?"

It's my turn to shrug. "Because I knew it was you. I wanted it to be you. I was… unravelling…"

"What do you mean?"

"Seeing you earlier. I didn't know what I was doing anymore. Why I was here, and you were somewhere else. How that had happened."

"It happened because you _left_."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I wish I could undo it. More than anything, I wish we could go back to how it was before. I know I ruined everything."

He sighs, and slumps back down into the chair, so low he is practically horizontal. He used to sit like that a lot. He used to do it in the common room at school and surreptitiously watch me reading. He would crane his head over the arm of the chair to look at me, obviously assuming I couldn't see him doing it, but I always knew.

"Christ," he says, "You really make it hard, you know."

"Why?"

"Talking like that. I was expecting an argument, at least. I thought you might tell me to get over it and throw me out. Hoped, maybe."

"You hoped I would throw you out?"

"At least then I'd know there's no hope, and maybe I could finally get on with my life. Maybe if we argued I could hate you, and that would be… something different, at least. I'm sick of every day being the same and never getting any better. I'm sick of people asking me how I'm feeling and I know they're sick of asking. No one ever talks about you anymore, you know. It's like this big forbidden subject. I was at home for Christmas and halfway through dinner Fred said something, I can't remember what, but he mentioned your name, and everybody stopped talking and turned to look at me with these worried expressions on their faces, like I might try to drown myself in the gravy or something."

"I realised then that it's always going to be like this. Ginny came up to me afterwards in the garden and said she'd read that it takes half as long again to get over someone as the time you were together. I think she thought it would make me feel better. Fat chance. Half as long again… Well, if you count all the time we spent together before we were officially going out, half of that's six years. I thought, please don't tell me I've got another four years of this. I'll go mad before then."

"So when Harry said I should come and help you paint your flat, because at least I could see you'd moved on and you weren't sitting around missing me like I was missing you… well, I told him 'no' about twenty times, but then I thought, anything - _anything_'s got to be better than this. So yeah, I hoped you'd shout at me, and tell me it was over, and throw me out, or throw something at me, or hit me, or _something_, because then I could try and get on with my life, like everyone keeps telling me I should. And instead you start saying things like 'I wish we could go back to how it was before'. I mean, what am I supposed to say to that?"

"Don't you wish that too?"

He doesn't answer for half a minute, then he mumbles, "Please don't do this to me. You know I can't say no to you. I should leave now, while I've still got some dignity left."

"Ron, it's not about that. And in any case, you've maintained much more dignity over this than I have."

He laughs, bitterly. "Oh, so Harry didn't tell you about the time I didn't get out of bed for two weeks, then? Or the time I drank so much I threw up over myself in a pub toilet and passed out? Or the time I burst into tears on the Tube? Or the time I decided it was a good idea to fly up here in the middle of the night and flew my broomstick into a telegraph pole and Fred and George had to come and get me? Or -"

_"Ron!" _

"What, you don't want to hear it?" But he lapses into silence.

I say, slowly, "You came _here? _When?"

"Ages ago. Anyway, I didn't get all the way. Only as far as some field near Kettering."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well…"

"I wish you _had_ come. I think if I'd seen you I might have realised I'd made a mistake. I might have realised sooner, anyway."

"Don't tell me that! What's the point in telling me that now?"

"Sorry."

He shakes his head. "I was going to come a hundred times but everyone kept telling me not to." He stares blankly up at the ceiling. "My dad was the only one who… everyone else said, 'No, don't go up there, that's what she wants. She's the one who left; she should come and see _you'_. But my dad said, 'If you want to go, go. Don't let things get out of hand. If you can do anything at all to get her back, you should do it'. I told him, 'Everyone else thinks I shouldn't go', and he said, 'Well, tell them that when they've been married thirty-five years and have raised seven kids they'll be entirely qualified to give advice'. I should have listened to him. I just thought it would make things worse."

"How could they have been _worse?_"

"Things can _always_ be worse. If I've learnt one thing these past two years -" He stops and screws up his face and makes a frustrated sort of sound. "So I _really_ don't want to hear that if only I'd ignored them, you might have changed your mind. If only I'd come up here and _begged_ you to come back… is that what you wanted, me on my knees?"

"No, that's not -"

"Yes, it is! 'Cause if you'd really wanted to get back together you'd have come to see _me_, wouldn't you? And you didn't, not once. Did you even try?"

I shake my head. "I think I hoped that if you were out of sight, you were out of mind."

"Yeah, well, I can tell you that's a load of crap, for a start. Whoever thought of that particular phrase should be pushed in front of a train."

­

He gets up and starts pacing the room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his face tense and unhappy. He is laying himself open emotionally to me, and I need to do the same. He needs to know that I have just as much to lose as he does, that I can be hurt too. I need to let him hurt me back if he wants to. I pull my t-shirt down over my knees and pull them up to my chest so I'm almost sitting in the foetal position in my chair.

"I'm sorry. I wish there was something else I can say to make it alright again."

"Well, there isn't."

"Then is there something I can _do_ that will persuade you I've realised what a terrible mistake I made?"

"You see, you keep saying that, but you don't say _why_ you've suddenly realised it, or why it took you two sodding years..."

"It took me two sodding years because I didn't realise how empty my life was until I saw you tonight and then it was like being hit by a train! When I saw you everything came flooding back. I couldn't believe I'd ever let you go -"

He yells, "You didn't _let me go! _You _left!_"

I am trying to keep my voice steady. I don't want to cry, not now. I need to say these things and not have him feel guilty just because I'm crying.

"Then I can't believe I left. I feel like my whole life since has just been on hold, that I've been just existing. I didn't realise how empty this flat was until you walked out of it this evening, and then I felt like I couldn't bear to be here alone anymore... that that's what it's been missing all this time... that that's what _I've_ been missing all this time. Everything has a you-shaped hole in it."

I hear him suck his breath in sharply and look up. He's stopped pacing and is just standing staring at me with a slightly stunned look on his face.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "That's exactly how I feel."

"What?"

"You-shaped hole", he barely whispers. His voice is cracking. He swallows hard, sniffs, turns away from me, and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Ron…" I plead, but he refuses to look at me and keeps his gaze fixedly on a point somewhere above my head, blinking furiously, the way you do to stop the tears from falling.

"I'm sorry, "I whisper, "I'm really sorry."

"Saying it isn't going to suddenly make everything alright," he says, angrily.

"Well, then tell me what to do to make everything alright and I'll do it. I'll come home..."

"Where to? Harry's spare room? There isn't anywhere to come home _to _anymore, Hermione!"

"Well, we could find another flat. Or you could move in here, if you like. I'll do anything you want. Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

"I don't _know_ what I want."

"Do you still want _me?_"

He looks at me with gritted teeth and clenched jaw, as though he can't trust himself to speak. "I don't think I'm the one that needs to answer that, do you?"

"Yes you _do_, Ron! Because I know how _I_ feel, but I don't know how _you_ feel… I know that you're angry…"

"Too fucking right I'm angry! Because you _left! _You left and you never bothered to explain why! I mean, what, am I supposed to be _happy_ about it?"

"Fine, shout at me if you want, if it makes you feel better -"

"Nothing makes me feel better!" he shouts. "I thought coming _here_ might make me feel better, but it doesn't, it makes me feel _worse!_ I mean, what do you want, do you want me to just roll over and forgive you and suddenly everything'll be back to normal again? Because that's never going to happen! You left! You _left! _Do you want to know what it's been like, these last two years? Do you really want to know? It's been fucking horrible! It's been the worst two years of my life! Everybody kept asking me where you were and why you'd left and I couldn't even tell them, because I didn't know myself, because you never _told_ me! My mum actually asked me if I'd cheated on you! My _mum! _So thanks for that, thanks for buggering off and leaving me to face everyone on my own, and thanks for never bothering to explain why, and - and - "

He takes a deep breath. "Do you know what the worst thing is? It's the sympathy. Oh God, the fucking sympathy! The next time someone asks me how I'm feeling I swear I'm gonna fucking hit them! I thought about getting a tattoo on my forehead: 'I'm shit, but thanks for asking!'" He smashes his fist into the wall in frustration, and makes me jump.

"Do you remember we used to joke that if we were ever stranded on a desert island, you'd be the one building treehouses and learning to catch your own fish, and I'd go mad within a week with just my miserable self for company? Yeah, well, that's exactly what it's been like! You've been up here building your sodding treehouse and apparently doing absolutely fine without me, and I've been stuck down there going out of my head for two years!"

"I haven't been _fine_ -"

"Oh, don't give me that! You've got your precious _job_, haven't you? And you've got your own very nice flat, I notice, and you can obviously afford the rent on your own, so what the hell do you need _me_ for?"

"Those are just _things_, Ron. Yes, I've got my own flat, but it's only where I sleep, it's not like our old flat, it doesn't _mean_ anything to me -"

"It's still better than living in your sister's spare room!"

"They don't mind -"

"_I_ mind! _I_ fucking mind, alright?"

"You could have moved out -"

"Oh yeah, like I could afford anywhere on my own!"

"Well, a flatshare then…"

"It's bad enough inflicting myself on family, let alone complete strangers. And funnily enough, I've not exactly been feeling very sociable lately. You -"

He stops and bites his lip, obviously too angry to speak. When it becomes apparent he's not going to carry on I try and resume my explanation.

"As for my job… I thought that was what I wanted, but now I don't know anymore. It's just a job -"

"Don't tell me that! You left me for that sodding job, so I really don't want to hear that it's _just a job_, and that actually, you don't even know if you want it after all!"

"I want _you _-"

"Oh, shut up! Why should I believe anything you say anymore?"

"I'm the same person -"

"D'you know what, I don't think you _are_ the same person, because the old Hermione would never have chosen a fucking job over me, but you did. You did!"

He stops and grips the back of the chair, breathing hard. I wait to see if he has more to say to me, but he seems to have exhausted himself.

"I didn't, Ron. That was just an excuse. I didn't leave for the job - you were right, I could have taken the job and still stayed. It didn't really have anything to do with why I left. It was just the catalyst, I think. All those arguments we had. Perhaps me taking this job was just the excuse we needed to get seven years worth of grievances out in the open."

"I didn't _have_ any grievances," he says, fiercely, "Maybe _you_ did, but I never had any. I thought we were _happy_."

"I thought we were too. Well, no, we _were. _Honestly, I don't know what happened. Everything just got out of hand so quickly. I'm just trying to understand it _now_. And I'm sorry I didn't explain at the time. I thought you knew."

"Well if _you_ didn't even know, how the hell was _I _supposed to?"

I laugh, sadly. "Good point."

He shakes his head. "We were like this at school, weren't we? Never properly explaining anything. Taking things the wrong way. It must have driven Harry nuts."

"It did."

"I thought we'd got past that shit."

"I did too."

He rubs his eyes wearily and yawns, stretching his arms behind his head, then wanders distractedly over to the bookshelves and bends down slightly to read the titles on the spines of my many books. A shaft of early morning sunlight pierces the curtains and lights up his hair, making it seem almost aflame. My heart aches with sudden longing and I close my eyes so I don't have to look at him.

"Hey, you've got _Quidditch Through The Ages!_"

My eyes snap open again. "Have I?"

"Yeah." He straightens up and shows me the book cover.

"I think that's probably yours."

He opens the book at the title page to check. "Oh, yeah. It's got my name in it."

"Have it if you want."

He stiffens and shoves the book back where it came from. "No."

"It's your book."

"Yeah, when I was about fourteen."

"I only meant -"

"I don't want to _argue_ about it," he says, sharply.

"I don't either, Ron, I just -"

The look on his face silences me further. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and glances around the room as if seeing it for the first time. "You've not got any photographs."

"I haven't really got around to decorating."

He nods. "It's a nice flat."

"Thanks."

"_Tidy,_" he adds, pointedly.

"Ron -"

He looks at me.

"Do you still love me?"

He doesn't hesitate for even a second. "Of course I do." He looks affronted that I even felt I needed to ask. "You _know_ I do."

He still loves me! Okay, maybe there's a part of him that hates me too, but _he still loves me! _Carried away with the euphoria of the moment I blurt out that I love him too, but he just frowns and shakes his head.

"Don't say that."

"Why not?"

"It's too soon."

"_You_ said it."

"That's different. I never stopped. You stopped."

"I didn't stop! I - I don't know what happened. I stopped realising it, I think. I stopped feeling anything at all."

"That's funny, 'cos I felt _everything_."

I glance up at him. Ron can be painfully honest sometimes, mostly about himself. Not everyone would lay themselves open the way he is. I don't think most men would admit they cried when their girlfriend left, least of all _to_ said girlfriend. Ron will say it while looking right at you, like it's a challenge.

"How can you just _stop?_" he pleads, "For _two years_, and then suddenly one day start again?"

"You don't believe me."

"Nope."

"Is there anything I can say to persuade you?"

_"_Nope."

It's my turn to get angry. "So why are you still here?"

He flinches, and looks briefly guilty. "Maybe I was just hoping for a revenge fuck after all," he says, bleakly.

"I don't believe that."

"Oh, yeah, that's right, I forgot, 'cause you know _everything!_"

"Ron -"

"I don't _know_ why I'm here, alright? It's not like I actually bothered to think it through or anything!" He gives a short laugh. "As usual…"

"Well, if you don't want to _be_ here, why don't you just _go_?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I should."

"You keep saying that but you don't go. Talk to me."

"I'm too drunk."

"You're not. You might have been earlier but you're not now."

"Too tired, then." He sighs. "Everything's shit and it never seems to get any better, and I'm sick of it. Bloody Harry! He said maybe if I realised you'd got on with your life I might finally be able to get over you and get on with mine. I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. As soon as I saw you tonight I knew I wouldn't be able to just go home again."

"Why are you still here, Ron?" I repeat.

He stares at me for a few seconds, then his shoulders slump and all the fight seems to go out of him. He looks thoroughly defeated.

"You _know_ why."

"I _don't_ know why, Ron, that's why I'm _asking_." I can hear the frustration in my voice.

He doesn't say anything at all for the longest time, and when he finally speaks it's so quietly I have to lean forward to hear him.

"Because _you're _here. I thought about you every day since you left. I thought about _this_ every day since you left. Harry's right, I _am_ a sucker for punishment. But it's alright for him, he doesn't have to lie on his own in a single bed in someone else's spare room every night and listen to his best mate and his sister shagging and laughing and being happy and oh, just generally fucking rubbing it in. He doesn't wake up every morning and wonder what the hell the point is even getting out of bed. So why am I still here? Because even if you don't love me anymore, even if I'm just kidding myself, even if it's just for a couple of hours, at least I'm not on my own. I know it's pathetic, but I just can't do it anymore."

I can't bear it any longer. I jump up from my chair and hurl myself across the room and into his arms, with such force that he's pushed back against the wall a few feet behind him. I throw my arms around him and bury my head in his chest and close my eyes tightly and cling on for dear life. I can feel him trying to shrink back from me but the wall is in the way. The pub smell of him fills my senses. It is wonderful!

"Please don't do this to me..." he whispers, "I can't go through this again."

But he doesn't push me away. He leans into me and rests his chin on the top of my head the way he always used to and strokes my hair and sighs deeply.

"Oh, _God_…"

We stand there for a while, and after a few minutes he slides his arms around me and pulls me even tighter against him, until I couldn't move even if I wanted to. But I don't want to, ever again. I could stand here like this forever. I don't know how many minutes pass, I only know that I 'wake up' and become aware that he's kissing the top of my head. Suddenly I feel every long empty minute of those two years. I think he's about to get his opportunity for a revenge fuck and I don't even care if that's all it is. All I know is that I haven't been held like this in two years and it's _Ron_, and I don't want him to ever let go. I lift my head off his chest and look up into his eyes and whisper, "Take me to bed".

He shakes his head slightly. "That's just going to make it harder."

"Well, then, just stay with me. You look exhausted. We can just sleep."

He hesitates.

"Please… I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go."

"Then don't."

We stare at each other, our faces inches away. Up close I see that he has dark circles under his eyes. I wonder if, like me, he couldn't sleep last night thinking about today. The black t-shirt and that new drastic haircut don't do him any favours either. He looks even paler than usual, and extremely tired. There are tiny specks of white paint in his hair. I reach up and touch his face and he closes his eyes and sighs and leans into my hand, and presses his lips to my skin. I lean up and put my mouth in the way of his. Our lips graze. His hand moves to my waist and clutches at the material of my t-shirt until he has found bare skin underneath it.

"Just so you know," I whisper, "There hasn't been anyone… it's still only you."

There is a long silence. I want him to tell me there's been no-one for him too, but I know it's something I have no right to ask, or even to expect. My unspoken, unanswered question echoes in the silence.

"You _left_," he says, defensively.

A tiny disappointed _"Oh" _escapes my lips, but inside I am falling apart. I let go of him and step backwards, my mind reeling. _"Oh." _It seems to be all I can say. I grab blindly at the back of the chair behind me for support, but it is out of my reach. No, he can't have done, he _can't_ - and then, if I hadn't left, if only I hadn't left! The tiny spark of hope I'd kept alive in my heart that this could be mended dies in this moment. It was always just the two of us and now it isn't anymore. He wasn't my first kiss - he wasn't even my second, in fact - but he was my first everything else. My _only_ everything else. And until this moment I was his. As long as it was just me and him there was a chance we could resolve our differences and start anew, but now… It's like a wall has sprung up between us. We had something perfect and now it's ruined. Tainted. There are a million questions I want to ask but I can't ask any of them. I can't think. I can't look at him. I don't know what to do. I barely even know where I am. I become distantly aware that he's speaking again.

"- supposed to do, sit around and wait for you to come back?"

I shake my head and try to compose myself. "No, of course not. It's fine, it's fine…"

But I know in my heart that it's not fine. It's never going to be fine again.

"I'm sorry," he says, quietly.

I look up at him, amazed. "Why are _you_ sorry?"

He shrugs. "You're upset."

"I'm not _upset!_" I snap.

He frowns. "Look, I wouldn't've - if you hadn't - "

"I know."

"You weren't there."

"I _know_."

I wish he would stop saying it, but it is obviously the thing that hurts him most. He seems to need to keep saying it back to me, _hurting_ me back. Using the words like a weapon. You left. _Stab_. Even if we can get through this - and in this moment that seems an impossible hope - he'll always have that to punish me with. To hurt me back. I left, and I have no answer for it.

"It's _fine_," I tell him again, forcing a bright smile on my face, but I know there must be giveaway tears in my eyes.

I suddenly feel exhausted and know I need to lie down before I fall. The whole room seems to tilt on its axis and I sway on my feet and stumble against him.

"Are you okay?" he asks, urgently, grabbing my arm to keep my upright.

"I'm just tired. I haven't eaten a thing all day." As soon as I say this, I realise it's true. No wonder I feel so light-headed.

"Silly girl," he says, softly, and I feel eleven years old all over again. My legs finally give way beneath me and he has to hold me up. He says something else but I don't hear him. I am only vaguely aware of him stroking my hair, then putting his arms around my back to support my weight and gently steering me into the bedroom. He lowers me down on the end of the bed and then just stands there awkwardly, watching me. I curl up and hug my knees to my chest and stretch an arm out towards him but he doesn't take it.

"_Please_... I just... I don't want to be alone anymore…"

That one seems to hit home. After a few seconds hesitation I hear him kick off his shoes and walk around the bed and feel the weight of the mattress shift as he lies down beside me. After a while I turn my head to look at him. He's lying stiffly on his side right on the edge of the bed, as far away from me as he can get, facing the wall. I know he's not asleep because I can't hear that distinctive half-snoring, half-breathing that would tell me he was. Exhaustion drags my eyelids downwards again and for some time we just lie there on the bed, not talking, not touching, not even looking at each other. We might as well be lying on either side of the Grand Canyon.

-----

* * *

_**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed Chapter 3, and please leave a review or I'll send Crabbe and Goyle 'round with the pliers...**_

_**PB x**_


	4. Chapter 4: The Cold Light Of Day

**Chapter Four: The Cold Light Of Day**

---

It is light when we go to bed, nearly seven, and afternoon when I wake to find the bed cold and empty next to me. Panicking, I call his name and run into the front room. He's not there, but his jacket is still hanging on the peg in the hall. Relief floods me for a few seconds, then I think, but he could have Apparated home and forgotten he was wearing it. I press my face into it and breathe in that stale pub smell. At least he'll have to come back for it. Or if he doesn't, I could use it as an excuse to go and see him. I can't just leave things as they are, not now. I wander back into my bedroom in a daze, still holding his jacket, and that's when I see one of his shoes sticking out from under the bed. My heart soars. If his _shoes_ are here… he's still here. He hasn't left. I walk slowly and quietly up the stairs, trying to calm my racing heart, and pause outside the bathroom. I can hear splashing.

"Ron?"

The splashing stops, and silence follows. When I can stand it no more I say again, "Ron?"

A tentative, "Yeah?"

"Are you having a bath?"

Another long pause.

He says, defensively, "Yeah, well when I woke up I realised I smelt like an ashtray, and you were still asleep, so… is that ok?"

"Yes, of course, it's fine."

Silence. I lean my head against the door. He must know I'm still there, but I can't bring myself to leave just yet. A few minutes go by.

"Ron?"

Pause.

"Ron!"

An uncertain, "What?"

"Can I come in?"

Long, long pause.

"Um…"

"I don't want to... I just want to talk to you."

Another painfully long silence. Then I hear the sound of the water being displaced as he gets up and out of the bath and walks the three feet to the door and unlocks it. I wait for him to get back in the bath again, then I take a deep breath and turn the handle and go in. It's hot and the room is full of steam. His things are in a messy damp heap on the floor. We look at each other, embarrassed. Ron has his knees pulled up to his chest. I know instantly that I can't stay here. I reach down and scoop his clothes into my arms and say, "I'll get these washed for you."

"No, don't, it's fine."

"It'll only take ten minutes."

"No, leave them."

"Honestly, you won't even notice, ten minutes."

"No, I -"

I lose my composure completely and shriek, _"I'm not going to burn them so you can't leave!" _

Long silence. We stare at each other. I'm not handling this very well and being in the same room as him while he's in the bath is not helping. He must think I've lost my mind. He says, slowly, _"_Okaaay...", as though placating a madwoman.

---

I get the hell out of there as quickly as I can and hurry downstairs where I throw his things into the washing machine along with his jacket, and then realise I am out of milk. I run back into my room, get dressed quickly, grab my keys and run full pelt down the two flights of stairs, out into the street, and the 500 yards to the supermarket where I throw some random things into my basket as though I'm on a trolley dash. Need milk… bread… cheese… teabags… orange juice… things for breakfast… _bacon! _Frozen chips and pizzas, in case he stays. Life's too short to cook, especially tonight. _If he stays_… Jaffa Cakes, he always liked those. Oh, chocolate, must get chocolate! At the till I twice remember things I've forgotten - Oh, toilet rolls! Damn, sugar! - so that by the time I've queued - it's a Saturday morning and hungover people are in there taking about a million years to load their bags, come on, come _on! - _I've been gone fifteen minutes. I race back to the flat, horribly aware that if he calls my name and I'm not there he really _will _think I've burnt his clothes so he can't leave.

---

When I get back to the flat, laden down with two bags of heavy shopping, I can hear the water running upstairs. The bath must have gone cold. I should have told him I'd be longer than ten minutes. I unpack the bags and then - finally! - the washing machine clicks off and I am able to use good old fashioned magic to dry them quickly. I hurry upstairs and put his clothes in a neat pile outside the door, tell him they are all clean and dry, and that I am making breakfast, and hurry back downstairs before he can reply.

---

I am in the kitchen frying bacon twenty minutes later when he comes up behind me and leans on the door jamb. He smells damp and clean and new and wonderful.

"Ooh, bacon sandwiches, you remembered!"

I whip round, hurt. His remark has hit home. "Well, _of course _I remembered! How could you think I would forget?"

Too late I realise he is joking. The grin slides off his face, and we stare at each other.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and turns away, into the front room.

This is going to be really hard, and this, I think, is the moment we both realise it. I always used to know when he was joking. I always used to know everything about him, and now I don't anymore. We used to have this shorthand, because we'd known each other so long, where just a couple of words or a look would say everything. All those coupley in-jokes we had, references that no-one else would get, things we used to say and do. I can't bear to think we will never get that back.

---

Ron is sitting in an armchair with his legs stretched out in front of him staring into space when I bring in the sandwiches and tea. I make stilted conversation, trying to keep my voice steady and my tone bright, but I know I'm on the edge and any minute I might break down. He only speaks when spoken to, and lapses into long silences between. He doesn't smile. I feel like I'm losing him again. Once or twice I catch him glancing towards the door. I wonder if in the cold light of day he regrets any of the things he said last night. Wishes he hadn't been so honest with me about his feelings. Wonders if he made a mistake coming here. Things often look a lot different the morning after. Today he just seems tired, like he hasn't got the energy to fight with me anymore. When we have finished the sandwiches and the tea we both sit clutching our cold empty cups for a long time, neither speaking or moving. Finally he clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak and I jump in quickly, before he can say the thing I dread him saying.

"I think -"

"Don't go."

We look at each other. He doesn't deny that was what he was going to say. I wish he wasn't sitting so far away from me. I wish I could just reach out, without having to physically stand up and walk over there. Ten feet of carpet between us, but it might as well be ten miles. Maybe I should just Apparate in his lap. The thought makes me smile, but it doesn't last long. He stares unhappily down at his shoes - anywhere but at me - and the unbearable silence descends once more. Eventually, after what seems like hours, he puts his cup down on the floor beside him and I take the opportunity to break the silence.

"Can I get you another cup of tea? Or coffee?"

"I don't drink coffee."

I look up, surprised. "You don't…?"

"Nah. Hate the stuff. I can't believe you forgot."

"But… last night…"

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I suppose I just thought it might sober me up quicker, that's all."

I start laughing and he frowns. "What's funny?"

"Well, it might have done… if it hadn't been _decaff_…"

He shakes his head. "Trust you to buy decaff! That's the whole _point_ of coffee. Tastes like shit, but at least it sobers you up quickly."

"I think dunking your head under the cold tap might have done that job a whole lot better."

He chuckles. "Damn, I didn't think you'd noticed!"

We smile at each other, then he frowns and looks away again, as if remembering he's supposed to be angry with me. I watch him tapping his foot nervously on the floor.

Casting around for a neutral subject I ask, "So how are the Cannons doing these days?"

He brightens immediately. "Alright, actually. They've got a new Seeker, he's Peruvian. He'll probably go and play for someone else next season, though. It's always the way when we get anyone half-decent; they go where the money is." He sighs. "Can't blame them, I suppose, but it's a shame, 'cos he's probably the best Seeker we've ever had. I was seriously thinking about getting a tattoo of him on my shin, but then Mike - you remember Mike?"

I nod. Mike was one of Ron's Quidditch mates. I lost count of the number of times I left them in the pub, cursing the referee or crying into their beer after yet another dismal performance.

"Yeah, well, Mike pointed out that if he got transferred to the Tornados I'd have to chop my leg off, so I didn't. You should see him play though," he enthuses, "He's incredible!"

I smile to myself. Some things change, but Ron's love for the Chudley Cannons is unwavering.

"How is Mike?"

"Yeah, he's alright. He's getting married, actually -" He frowns, and stops dead, glancing quickly at me to see my reaction.

"Oh."

"Yeah, so that's... good, obviously…"

He tails off. There's no need to voice the thought I'm sure we've both having, that if we were still together we'd probably be married ourselves now.

---

He asked me once. I didn't say no, exactly, I just said not yet. And besides, he didn't even ask me properly, we were just in bed one night and he said, "What do you think about getting married?" I said I thought it was a good idea in principle, and he laughed and said, "No, I mean, what do you think about _us_ getting married?" I said, "You have to _ask_ me first" and he said, "I thought I just did", and I said, "No, you have to ask me _properly_." "What, the whole down-on-one-knee thing?" "Yes, Ron, the whole down-on-one-knee thing." And he started to get out of bed but I stopped him and said that I _did_ want to marry him someday, but not yet, because we were still too young - 23 when he asked me - and because there were a lot of other things I wanted to do first. And besides, when people asked me how he'd proposed, which they surely would, I didn't want to have to tell them that we were in _bed_. So I told him to just "Surprise me sometime," and he laughed and said, "Alright, I will!", but he never did. Because less than a year later –

---

I realise that he's stopped talking and is just looking at me, and that I haven't been listening for several minutes now. I have the horrible feeling that he's just asked me a question. I excuse myself to go and get a glass of water from the kitchen, and when I come back he's sitting staring into space again, scratching his arm absently. It gives me a pang to remember when we used to sit next to each in lessons and I'd look at his arm lying on the desk next to mine and count the freckles, and wonder if I'd ever feel those arms around me. I go to sit down again and our eyes meet.

"I used to wonder if you'd meet someone," he says, suddenly, "And if Harry would even tell me if you did. It seemed inevitable, actually. I thought that one day I'd open the Daily Prophet and there'd be a picture of you in there getting married to some other bloke and looking happy."

Without thinking I tell him, "I used to think that one day there'd be a knock on my door and you'd be dead."

He is half-amused, half-appalled. "What, you thought that was more likely than me getting married? That I'd be _dead?_"

­

I try and explain that anything happening to him was always my deepest fear, and it was hard to let that go. When we lived in London he never got the hang of all the traffic, and he was ridiculously un-streetwise. He just wouldn't know you shouldn't go to certain areas at night, he trusted strangers who approached him with hard luck stories - "Just need a pound for the bus, mate", "I need some money to buy milk for the baby," "I've locked myself out and need 50p to ring my sister". Once, at my mum's house, I found him jamming a knife into the toaster to dig out a stuck crumpet, and he couldn't understand why I was so upset with him.

---

My worst fear was that if something serious happened he'd be taken to a Muggle hospital and they'd have no way of contacting me. They could hardly send an _owl. _I bought us both mobile phones and made him carry my number around in his wallet for that exact reason. Of course, he never bothered to work out how to use it properly and kept forgetting to turn it on, so I'd not be able to get through to him and assume the worst had happened. Or he'd forget to switch it _off, _so it would get bumped around in his bag or his pocket and I'd get these silent phone calls where I could hear muffled sounds of traffic or music or conversation. The first time it happened I was convinced he'd been knocked down by a bus and was lying in the road unable to speak or tell me where he was. Which, as it turned out, was in the pub with Harry. I screamed blue murder at him later. So yes, I thought that one day it might really happen and I wouldn't get a phone call, it would just be a fact, too late.

"Maybe I _should_ have chucked myself under a bus," he says, dryly. "Maybe you might have bothered to come and see me then."

"Don't say things like that."

He shakes his head. "Actually, you probably wouldn't have even then, would you?"

"I don't know. I don't think I'd have thought you _wanted_ me to come. Or that Ginny would let me anywhere near you."

"Yeah, good old Ginny," he says, sarcastically.

"How _is_ Ginny?"

"She's alright. Seems happy."

His voice cracks on the last word and he wipes his eyes quickly with the back of his hand as though I won't notice if he does it fast enough, then picks up the cup on the floor by his side and puts it down again, just for something to do.

"How are the rest of the family?" I ask him, and he tells me that his brother George got engaged, and that Fleur, his eldest brother Bill's wife, is expecting their third child, and his middle brother Percy's wife had a baby a few weeks ago.

"Boy or girl?" I ask.

He laughs. "Boy, of course! I told you, the Weasleys don't _have_ girls!"

"How many nephews have you got now?"

"Five and counting. Not quite enough for a Quidditch team yet. Plus only three of them can actually _walk_, so… Fred keeps trying to get Davey to sit on the broomstick but he keeps falling off. He's got fifty Galleons on him playing for England by the time he's twenty one, so I think he's trying to train him up early."

"How are your mum and dad?"

He bites his lip and looks down at his knees. "Dad's alright. Mum wasn't very well for a bit but she's better now. Still gets tired, though, but everyone helps out as much as they can. You know what's she like, though, she won't sit down, she always wants to be doing something. Worries about everyone, especially m-"

He stops, goes slightly red and changes tack at lightning speed. "Oh, yeah, and Charlie's grown a beard! He looks like he's just escaped from Azkaban. Mum keeps shaking her head and saying what a terrible shame it is, he's such a handsome lad under all that scruff. Now he just looks like a mad Scotsman. He's got a new girlfriend too, he brought her round for dinner last week. Dunno how long this one'll last. I lose track of all his women, to be honest. We never even meet half of them. I think he got fed up with the fact that if he ever did bring any of them home, Mum would have them married off before they'd even finished hanging up their coats!"

He laughs nervously, then stops and frowns and looks quickly away from me. Why is it so hard? We're not arguing anymore, but we don't seem to have anything else to say to each other either. Is this how it's going to be from now on? This awful, awkward silence between us. Every attempt at conversation a dead end.

---

We never ran out of things to talk about before. Even when we were arguing, that was always the least of our problems. He used to say the only time it was ever quiet in our house was when we were eating (and not even then, frankly), or asleep (again, mainly due to Ron's snoring, not necessarily the case), or our mouths were just "otherwise engaged, ha ha." He used to say everything that came into his head without thinking first. Like the first time we slept together and afterwards he blurted out, "That was a bit mad, wasn't it?" Not the most romantic thing he could have said, but certainly accurate. And it did break the tension, at least.

---

He was always very good at that. Breaking the tension with a joke. Even though his unerring ability to do it at the most inappropriate moments would sometimes make me want to strangle him. The thought makes me smile, but then I catch sight of his expression and the smile freezes on my face. The Ron I'm sitting across from now looks unlikely to ever make a joke again. He's only ten feet away from me but he looks as though he's thousands of miles away in his head. I wonder what he's thinking about, and if he'll ever come back to me.

---

I rearrange my legs under me to try and attract his attention back to me again and, as I hoped, he glances up at the sudden movement. My head is starting to throb from the pressure of trying to make conversation. I press my thumbs into my temples as hard as I can, aware of him watching me across the room. There was a time he would have asked if I was okay. There was a time I would have told him that my head was hurting. Now it seems we can't say or do anything without worrying what the other one will think. I don't want him to feel sorry for me. He doesn't want to admit he still cares. He doesn't want to give _anything_ away, even though most of the time he can't help himself. So, we sit here and we talk about nothing, instead of what we _should_ be talking about, which is _us_.

---

I don't _care _how the Cannons are doing this season. I don't care whether their new Seeker is from Peru or Portsmouth or bloody Pluto. I don't care that Mike's getting married or Charlie's grown a beard. I want to ask him, "Please, just tell me whether there's any kind of chance for us, or if you're just sitting there trying to think of an excuse to leave and never come back." But I don't. Because I know that the longer I can keep him talking, the greater my chance of persuading him not to go. He clears his throat to speak and I force a smile onto my face and lift my eyes to his.

"How are _your_ parents, they alright?"

"They're fine."

He nods. "Good."

Well, that's the end of _that_ conversation.

More silence, then we both start to speak at the same time:

"So, I -"

"Do you -"

We stop and laugh, and he gestures to me to go ahead and speak and I shake my head and gesture back to him, and there is an awkward little moment where neither of us wants to say anything in case we interrupt each other again.

"Sorry, you go."

"No, honestly, I've forgotten what I was going to say anyway."

He affects a sudden interest in his fingernails.

"So, uh, nobody asked you out, then?"

"No."

Guilt courses through my body. I don't know why I don't tell him about Jeff, I just know that he's not ready to hear it yet. And that I don't want to give him an excuse to leave.

He looks sceptical. "What, nobody at all, in two years?"

"Nobody."

"Huh."

There's something slightly satisfied about the way he says "Huh!" that makes a sick little knot form in my stomach.

"What about you?" I ask, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten as I do so.

"What _about_ me?"

The tension in the room increases perceptibly.

I can't bring myself to ask the question I want to ask, so I just wait, and eventually he sighs and slumps back in the chair and says, "I don't go out."

"You don't…?"

"I hate living in London. I never liked it much before, but now everywhere just reminds me of you. I only live there because Harry offered me his spare room and it seemed easier. I thought about moving back to Devon, or at least somewhere in the country, but I never did. I was too tired. So, I don't go out. And anyway, it's not like I'm exactly fighting them off."

"You forget," he says, an edge of bitterness in his voice now, "I'd never actually been on a proper date before. I didn't know what you were supposed to do. I've never had to chat up a girl or ask anyone to go out with me. What's your name, where are you from, what do you do? I like your hair. Have you got any hobbies? All that shit. And it turns out I'm not very good at it."

He gives a mirthless laugh. "And funnily enough, girls aren't that impressed when you spend half the night banging on about your ex and wondering where it all went wrong."

It gives me a strange jolt to hear myself described as his "ex", but I suppose that's what I am now.

He sighs. "I think women can just _tell_, to be honest. I think you get a sort of desperate look about you. Dumped and desperate. _Ha_."

---

Dumped. I hate that word. I never really felt that I _had_ dumped him, as far as I was concerned it was a mutual thing; we had just fallen apart. But he obviously felt that I had, and I suppose that's what it must have looked like to everyone else. It never for a minute occurred to me that I hadn't explained why I was leaving. It made sense in my head, I just assumed it made sense to him too. But now I see that I never really explained anything. We argued about lots of different things, and all he knew was that for some reason I took a job 200 miles away and never really told him why it was necessary. Because it _wasn't _necessary. People must have asked him what had happened, why I'd left, and he had no answer to give them. No wonder they all blamed me for leaving. No wonder Ginny couldn't forgive me. No wonder Fred and George looked at me with such contempt that time in Diagon Alley. Oh God, they must really hate me!

---

"How's your job?" I ask him, trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters.

He shrugs. "Alright. I haven't been sacked yet, anyway."

"You're still doing the same thing?"

His eyes narrow. "That's right. I'm the one with no ambition, remember?"

I am dismayed. "That wasn't what I meant at all!"

He shrugs again, to show me he couldn't care less either way. "Whatever you say."

"Ron, I didn't -"

"Forget it."

"Ron -"

_"Forget it."_

Something he said earlier finally penetrates my brain. "Why would you be sacked?"

He looks down at his shoes. "I'm on my second official warning. Well, third, really."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know…"

He seems to almost shrink back into the chair in embarrassment and shame.

"It doesn't… I don't… I've just spent a hell of a lot of mornings at work either hungover or still drunk, that's all."

He catches my eye and a steady flush creeps up his cheek.

"Not so much lately, but… the first few months, you know…"

His voice is so low now I have to lean forward to hear him.

"And then I had a bit of a relapse when - well, there was another time. But we had a new boss by then, so she didn't know I'd already had two warnings."

He shrugs and forces a weak grimace. "So that was… lucky, I guess."

---

He sounds as though he'd almost _wanted_ to be sacked. I watch him fiddling with a bit of loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt. I don't know what to say. Ron was never really much of a drinker when we lived together. Oh, sometimes he'd go out on his own with his brothers or Harry or his Quidditch mates or work colleagues and come home somewhat the worse for wear, but it was only ever a couple of times a month, if that. If we went out together, he'd pace himself to my level, which was usually one drink: become nicely relaxed, two drinks: start getting a bit silly, three drinks: fall asleep. "Someone's got to carry you home," he'd joke, "And I need to be sober enough to take advantage…" And in any case, he's got hollow legs, it takes a lot to get him properly drunk. He has to really want to. Drowning his sorrows because the Cannons have lost again, mostly.

---

He must have been really pushing it to get an official warning too. Ron works for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It's a very blokey office, as you might imagine. They go to the pub most lunchtimes. When he first started there he managed it for a week but then he decided he'd only go on Fridays and bring his own sandwiches the rest of the time. He said it was because he kept falling asleep in the afternoon but I suspect it was really a money-saving measure. He spent most of his first pay packet in the first week he was there, trying to keep up with the hardcore of drinkers in the office. A lot of them would go to the pub after work too, but Ron hardly ever did, apart from that first week when he was trying to fit in. When asked, he'd just shrug and say, why on earth would he want to spend the evening in the pub listening to Fat Nigel banging on about hoop size regulations when he had a wonderful woman waiting for him at home?

---

I suppose that once he didn't have a woman, wonderful or otherwise, waiting for him at home, Fat Nigel's company must have started to look a lot more appealing. I can see that if you were faced with the choice of going home alone to a room you hated, or spending the evening talking about Quidditch with your workmates in a nice warm pub, the latter would win every time. I worked late at the office every night for exactly the same reason. I have no moral high ground here. Work, pub, it's all distraction.

---

"I don't do it any more," he says, apparently reading my mind, "It was just a way to get out of the house, that's all."

"I understand."

"I mean, I'm alright now. Well, not _alright_, exactly, but you know what I mean. I don't go to the pub anymore. Well, sometimes, on a Friday or if it's someone's birthday or something. But not like every day or anything. And last night was just because, you know, _you_ were there."

"I know, Ron. I do understand. You just wanted to get out of the house."

"Yeah," he says, apparently still unconvinced that he has explained himself properly, "I suppose."

---

The nervous tapping on the arm of the chair starts up again in earnest. I try and offer a sympathetic smile but he refuses to meet my gaze and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the carpet. He doesn't say anything for the longest time and when he finally does speak the words all come tumbling out in a rush, as though he'd been preparing the speech in his head first and just wanted to get to the end as quickly as possible:

"I went out drinking a few times - well, a _lot _of times - with this bloke at work whose girlfriend had run off with someone else and was really bitter about it. Every night we'd end up the last people in the pub at closing time after all the people with families and girlfriends and _lives_ had gone home. He'd be calling her an effing bitch and telling me I should just steer clear of women because they're all the same, they're only interested in you for your money and your house and once they've got it they'll start looking around for someone else. I'd say well, I haven't got any money _or_ a house, and he'd say, don't bother, mate, some bitch'll only take it from you if you do. Jesus. I stood it for about three weeks and then I cracked and told him I was sick of him and his whining. I thought, if I carry on like this, I'm going to end up like him. I've got to stop spending all my evenings sitting in the pub and _do_ something."

He glances up, catches my eye, and looks away again quickly. "That was the time I thought it would be a good idea to fly up to Yorkshire on my broomstick in the middle of the night. I'd obviously had a few drinks. Of course, I forgot that I didn't actually know where you lived, I only realised when I was about halfway there and then I thought I might as well just go anyway. I didn't know how big the town was, I thought I could find you. Then it started raining really hard and I got soaked and it was blowing a gale and I could hardly see where I was going, it was ridiculous. I crashed my broomstick into a telegraph pole and landed in this muddy field in the middle of God knows where. I could hardly turn up unannounced on your doorstep in the middle of the night wet through and covered in mud. It was... a bit of a low point."

He shakes his head and gives a short, bitter laugh.

"So many low points! Getting off with my boss was probably up there with the stupidest things I've ever done..."

I am confused. _"Malcolm?"_

He looks at me scathingly. "No, not _Malcolm! _Jesus, that really would have been a new low. No, we got a new boss. Linda. She'd only been there a few weeks and a load of us went to the pub for someone's leaving do, and we were the last people to leave come closing time. She'd just split up with her boyfriend, so we had a bit of a mutual bonding session slagging off our exes-" - he glances at me pointedly as if to remind me of my part in this sorry tale – "And, you know, a drunken snog. Oh, and _then_, just to top it all off nicely, she said she didn't feel very well and needed to get some fresh air, so we went outside, she threw up over her shoes, and I put her in a taxi. 'Course, by Monday morning they were back together again and she called me into her office and made me swear never to mention it to anyone."

He rubs his eyes wearily. "Probably the only reason I haven't been sacked, actually. I know too much."

"And that's all it was, a drunken snog?"

"Yeah, thank God. Still pretty embarrassing, though." He yawns and stretches his arms over his head. "Not exactly what you'd call my finest hour."

"Well, it could have been worse," I offer, trying to be sympathetic, "You put her in a taxi, that was a nice thing to do."

He looks mildly amused. "As opposed to what, jumping on her? Nah, she'd just been sick down herself, I wasn't _that_ desperate."

We look at each other and start laughing, although I don't know how I can find it funny that Ron kissed another woman, no matter how drunk he was, or how much he regrets it. I'm laughing because the alternative is curling up into a ball on my chair and howling. Each fresh revelation is like a knife in my chest.

"Anyway," he says, with an air of drawing a line under the whole sorry incident, "Enough about me. What have you been up to?"

I pick up my glass and take a sip of water to give myself time to think. "Nothing, really."

"Nothing?" His tone is one of disbelief.

"I told you, I just work and sleep. I don't go out, I don't go to parties." I try and make a joke of it: "Why, is that what you imagined me doing, having some sort of wild social life without you?"

_"No," _he retorts, far too quickly. He flushes under my gaze and looks away from me, and I realise that's exactly what he imagined. He starts nervously gnawing his fingernails and for several minutes neither of us speaks, each lost in our own thoughts. I want to tell him how desperately unhappy I've been, how much I wish I could change everything that's happened. More than anything, I want to go over there and hug him, and for him to hug me back and hold me tightly, the way he did last night, as though he was never going to let go.

"I saw you once," he says, abruptly, "In Charing Cross Road. You were going into a bookshop."

I stare at him, my heart thumping. "You did? When?"

He shrugs. "I dunno, a couple of months after you left."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

He smiles slightly. "Couldn't move my legs. And anyway, what would I have said?" He adopts a fake breezy tone: "'Oh, _hi_, how _are _you? _Lovely_ to see you, fancy a coffee?' I don't _think_ so. No, I just stood there like an idiot for about five minutes trying to decide what to do, then you came out again and crossed the road and went into the tube station. And I went straight to the nearest pub and ordered a quadruple whisky."

I don't know what to say. I wish with all my heart he'd had the nerve to approach me. I'm certain that if he had, things would have been different. I can see it now so vividly, the awkward smiles on greeting, then the two of us sitting in our favourite café in Soho and realising, over hot sweet tea and huge slices of chocolate cake, how much we missed each other.

"It was December," he says, all pretence at not remembering gone now, "A few days before Christmas. You were wearing a blue coat." He closes his eyes, apparently caught up in the memory. "And you had a purple scarf in your hair. You looked -"

But he opens his eyes again, sees me watching him, and stops, going slightly red, as though he hadn't realised he was speaking the words aloud.

"That was one of the times I was going to come and see you," he says, clear blue eyes fixed on mine, "But Ginny talked me out of it. She said I'd be wasting my time."

My heart sinks. "Ginny must really hate me."

"She doesn't _hate_ you. She just… you know... for _me_…"

I don't understand. "For _you?_"

"Everybody else just assumed it must be my fault. They didn't believe me when I told them I didn't know why you'd left, they all thought I must have done something really bad and just been too ashamed to tell them about it. Ginny did too, at first. But then one day she came to see me and apologised, said she was sorry she hadn't believed me, she cried, I cried, there was hugging, it was ridiculous.

Anyway, she started sticking up for me after that, whenever Mum or the others had a go at me about it, telling them to leave me alone, they didn't know what they were talking about. I never really knew why, but I suppose it must have been that time she came to see you and you sent her away, she realised. I probably wasn't quite as appreciative as I should have been, mind. We had a lot of rows. Her telling me to sort myself out and me telling her to mind her own effing business. I don't suppose I was the easiest person to live with exactly."

He gives a rueful smile. "She has been good to me, though. If it wasn't for her and Harry I don't know what I'd have done. She offered me their spare room when I had to move out of our old place, but I said no. Well, at first, anyway."

He shakes his head. "Stupid pride, I suppose. Didn't want to sponge off my sister. And look where _that_ got me."

"You said _no? _But I thought… Well, where did you live, then?"

"Oh, Harry didn't tell you that part? Can't say I blame him, I suppose. No, I got myself a bedsit for a couple of weeks until I ran out of money. _Ha_. That was a highlight." He grimaces. "Woodlice in the bathroom."

_"Woodlice?" _

He starts counting on his fingers, his tone defiant: "Then; a week on Mike's floor 'til his girlfriend complained, three nights on the sofa at Bill and Fleur's, five days at George's place while he was on holiday, four days at Fred's 'til we had a row - so much for not wanting to sponge off my family - and finally a couple of nights sleeping under my desk at work 'til I overslept one morning and got caught out. That was my second official warning, in fact."

He gives a hollow laugh. "Anyway, I suppose someone at work must have told my dad about it, because he came and took me out for lunch and tried to give me money and get me to go home with him, but there was no way I was gonna do _that_. Twenty four years old and back living in my old bedroom with the Chudley Cannons wallpaper and Mum washing my socks? I don't _think_ so."

He makes an angry, frustrated sort of noise, almost a growl.

"Anyway, I suspect the family probably got together and had some sort of meeting about me, because the next day Ginny came to see me and insisted that I come and stay with them, at least until I'd sorted myself out. So that was obviously pretty humiliating. If I'd had any choice I'd have said no, but I'd run out of options by then. And money. And friends. It was either that or sleep in the park. At least at Harry and Ginny's I can _pretend_ I've got some sort of life, and everyone can feel pleased with themselves that they've done their good deed for the year and they don't have to worry about me anymore."

"Ron, they're your family, of course they want to help -"

He doesn't seem to hear me. "And anything's better than living on my own. _Anything. _God, I hated that. Those first few months after you left..." He tails off, obviously remembering painful things.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Well… it sounds awful. Having to sleep under your desk. The woodlice."

He waves his hand dismissively. "Oh, that was all right. I didn't mind _that_. It was better than kipping at Fred's anyway, at least I didn't get woken up every morning by a small boy jumping on my head. And I'd take the woodlice any day over having to live in our old place on my own again. It was like living with a ghost. Like you were still there, only you weren't. Do you know what I mean?"

I nod, unable to trust myself to speak. I know exactly what he means. It's how I felt last night after he'd gone. That the ghost of him was still here with me, even though he wasn't.

He stares unseeingly at some distant spot somewhere past my head.

"I mean, I'd never lived on my own before. I don't think I'd even spent a single night in the house on my own. I lived the first eleven years of my life in a house with nine people in it, and the next six in a dorm with four other blokes. I was trying to remember if we ever spent a night apart after we moved in together and I honestly don't think we did. Do you?"

---

I try and remember and have to concede that we probably didn't. Of the many benefits of being a witch and a wizard. Wherever we are in the country we can always Apparate home in five seconds flat. So we never _needed_ to spend a night apart. He could go to his parents' house in Devon for dinner and be back in London with me for coffee and mints. Or rather, tea and biscuits. And rather more handily, a five second commute time meant we could leave it until the last possible minute before getting out of bed. Very useful if, like Ron, you can sleep for England, or - well, let's just say there were quite a few mornings I arrived at work still flushed and with a very big smile on my face.

---

Once - oh my _God! _- I had to chair a 9 a.m. meeting with my boss and several other important members of the department, and all I kept thinking about was what we'd been doing ten minutes beforehand. I couldn't stop smiling to myself, I was so sure they must be able to look at me and just _tell_. I hadn't even had time to brush my hair, so I really must have looked a fright. My boss took me aside afterwards and asked me if I was feeling alright, because I looked "a little feverish". The memory makes me laugh out loud. He looks at me quizzically.

"Oh, nothing. Just a memory, that's all…"

He raises his eyebrows. "A _good_ memory?"

"Well, _you_ were in it…"

He laughs. "Like I said, a _good_ memory?"

It's my turn to laugh. "Yes." I can feel my face getting warm. "A good memory." We smile at each other. "There are a lot of good memories, Ron. I don't want to throw all of that away."

I wait for him to retort that it's a bit late for that, but he doesn't say anything, just goes slightly red and looks away from me and wipes an imaginary speck of dirt off his knee. Instead he gets hurriedly to his feet, mumbles, "I've just got to -" and disappears upstairs to the bathroom.

­

---

The fact that he still hasn't left - and has stopped saying "I should go" every five minutes - gives me hope. I don't know how or if I can persuade him of the depth and reality of my feelings towards him. I suppose all I can do is let him tell me the many, many ways in which I hurt him until finally he stops needing to tell me and starts hearing me, starts believing me. I feel like I've been sitting here opposite him having this conversation for days, but it's still less than 24 hours. I feel like we have to stay in this room until we can resolve it. _If_ we can resolve it.

---

I take the opportunity to get myself another glass of water from the kitchen and when I come back out again Ron is standing behind the chair - _hiding_ behind it is probably a more accurate description - and pointedly not looking at me at all. Getting it all off his chest doesn't seem to have helped. Now he just seems tired, like he's said what he came to say, and he thought that would make him feel better, but it doesn't. Talking about everything he went through just seems to have reminded him of how badly I hurt him, how hard it will be to forgive me, and now I can feel him shutting down again, closing himself off, putting up barriers. I wonder if I spoke too soon about him not leaving. With a slight sinking feeling, I return to my chair on what increasingly feels like the opposite corner of the boxing ring. Him in the red corner, me in the blue. And him looking as though he's about to throw the towel in and give up on the fight.

"I like your necklace," he says, suddenly, "Is it new?"

"Oh. Yes."

"It's nice."

"Thank you."

I don't know why the unexpected compliment makes me feel so warm all of a sudden, or why I have to choke back the lump that comes into my throat.

"It was a birthday present." I touch the necklace self-consciously. "From my mum and dad."

He nods, sadly.

"Did you get anything nice for _your_ birthday?" I ask him, wishing I hadn't as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

He shrugs. "Not particularly."

"What did you do, did you go out somewhere with Harry?"

"Mum cooked a meal. It was alright. I've had worse birthdays."

I laugh nervously, but he doesn't smile. "Your seventeenth, you mean?"

He sighs wearily and rubs his eyes. "No, that was alright." He doesn't elaborate, and seems not to want to talk to me at all. It's like getting blood out of a stone.

"Your twenty-first was good, though," I persist, hoping that memories will open him up. "Do you remember?" He watches me, saying nothing. "I was sick and you stayed in all day looking after me, even though you had tickets for the Cannons that afternoon…?"

"Not just tickets," he says, flatly, "Tickets for the most important Cannons match in about ten years."

"They lost, didn't they?"

"Yeah. No surprise there."

"It was still sweet of you to look after me, though."

He shakes his head. "What do you _want_, Hermione?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think's going to happen? Do you really think that if you talk about the good old days I'm suddenly going to forget about the last two years and welcome you back with open arms?"

My eyes fill with tears and I look down at my knees so he won't see, but I am not quick enough.

"Oh, don't cry!" he snaps, aggressively.

"I'm not crying!" I wail, through the tears.

We look at each other. A fleeting expression of guilt flashes across his face. He looks as though he wants to say sorry, but can't bring himself to. There is a long, long silence, punctuated only by my sniffs. Eventually, when I have dried my eyes, and trying to offer a compliment in return, I say, as brightly as I can manage, "I like your jacket. Is it new too?"

He stares at me, disbelievingly. "Yeah."

"Was it a birthday present?"

Slight pause, as though he was going to say something sarcastic, but changed his mind. "No."

"Did you buy it in a Muggle shop?"

"Yeah."

I make a nervous joke: "You finally got over your hatred of shopping, then?"

He looks at me with barely-concealed hostility. "Not really."

"It's nice."

No response.

"Did you just decide to treat yourself?"

He shrugs. I wait. He sighs impatiently. "I lost the other one, alright? Probably left it in a pub or something. Any more questions you want to ask?"

"No, I -"

"Good, because I'm too tired for all this."

"Ron -"

_"WHAT?" _

I am shocked into silence. "I'm trying my best," I tell him in a small voice, tears pricking my eyes again, "I've said I'm sorry, and I am. I don't know what else I can say to you. Tell me what you want me to say and I'll say it."

He doesn't say anything for the longest time, then he goes and sits down in the chair again and folds his arms and just watches me. He looks defeated.

"I wanted you to tell me how miserable you've been," he says, flatly. "I wanted you to have had an even worse time of it than I did. I wanted you to be unhappy."

"I _am _unhappy."

"Yeah. I thought I might be glad about that, but I'm not. And it's ridiculous, anyway, wanting you to be miserable just because _I _am. What's the point of that? Doesn't make me feel any better. I hate that you're unhappy. I hate that I wanted that. I've turned into this misery magnet; everywhere I go I just bring people down."

"Oh, Ron, I'm sure that's not true."

"Yeah, it is. Even Harry and Ginny have started arguing."

I'm shocked. "They have? Harry never said anything."

"He wouldn't. But they have. I can't help thinking that if I wasn't there, hanging around looking miserable, spoiling their fun…"

"They love you, they don't mind."

He ignores me. "Do you know what Ginny said to me a few months ago?"

"What?"

"She said, "You used to be a laugh." She was trying to get me to go to one of those stupid speed-dating evenings. Can you imagine? Christ. I'd rather cut off my thumbs."

I smile to myself. Ron always had a knack for a deadpan turn of phrase. "I think you'd be rather good at it, actually," I tell him.

He looks up, surprised. "Nah, I'd be terrible. I'd get all nervous and talk too much and they'd think I was an idiot. And anyway, they'd all be Muggle women, what would I talk to them about?"

"The same things you talk to me about."

He grins. "Not Quidditch, then?"

"Ron, even if you were on a date with a _witch_, you still shouldn't spend the evening talking about Quidditch. And I can't believe I'm giving you dating advice…"

He shakes his head. "Wouldn't have worked, anyway. I couldn't even handle _one _date, let alone _twenty_."

My stomach gives a feeble lurch. "You went on a date?"

He looks embarrassed, and glances quickly away from me. "Yeah," he says, flushing slightly. "Ginny set me up on a blind date with this girl from her work about six months ago."

"Did she?" I am amazed how calm my voice sounds. "How was it?"

"I've no idea. I scarpered before the main course arrived."

I laugh, despite myself. Ron has a way of saying terrible things as though they are jokes.

"Was she that bad?"

"No, she was perfectly nice. I just panicked. I think if she'd been awful I might have stayed longer. I didn't _want_ her to be nice. I didn't want to" - he puts on a nagging voice like his mother's - "_Meet a nice girl and settle down_. And - forget you. I don't know why. It's not like I ever thought for one moment you might come back. But still…"

He tails off, looking depressed. "She's right, I didn't used to be such a miserable sod all the time."

It takes me a few seconds to realise he's talking about Ginny again.

"I don't want to be like this, but I just can't seem to pull myself out of it. I think that's why I came. Well, one of about a hundred reasons, anyway. Everyone's sympathetic for about the first six months, then they get pissed off with looking at your miserable face all the time and try to get you to get back out there, then when you fuck that up, they get bored with you. They can't be bothered anymore, and who can blame them? I'm supposed to be over this by now. There are rules, apparently. I can't remember exactly what they are but you know, anger, denial, self-pity, all that rubbish. Anyway, you're supposed to go through all those and come out the other side and suddenly everything's fine again. Only it isn't. I've done all that and everything's still shit. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. You'll probably know. You know everything, don't you? So _you_ tell me, 'cos I'm fucked if I know, what the hell am I supposed to do?"

I don't know what to say. A million thoughts go through my head at once. I want to tell him: Stop trying to get over me. Take me back. Forgive me. Let's start again. But instead I just swallow my emotions and ask, "Do you want a cup of tea?"

He laughs out loud, and I'm so surprised I can't help smiling back.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do, actually. That's the answer to everything, isn't it?"

He seems to cheer up instantly. "Have you got any biscuits?"

"Why, are you hungry?"

He grins. "Always."

"I've got a brand new packet of Jaffa cakes with your name on."

He raises his arms over his head in mock-celebration, exclaims, "Score!" and makes me laugh. Five minutes later he's wolfed down half the packet. A memory makes me laugh out loud and he raises his eyebrows at me.

"What?"

"I was just thinking… that night with the chocolate spread…"

Ron nearly chokes on his Jaffa cake. "Oh my - _cough_ - God! I'd totally for - _cough_ - gotten about that!"

"Your two favourite things combined, you said."

He laughs, and swallows the rest of the Jaffa cake quickly. "Two of my _three_ favourite things," he corrects, "If you could have got Quidditch in there somewhere too, it would have been nigh-on perfect."

"Yes, but as I think I pointed out at the time, it's pretty much impossible to get up to anything at all when you're fifty feet up in the air on a broomstick. At least not without serious risk of death."

"Ah," he says, in a wistful voice, "But what a way to go…"

We both laugh, and he throws me a Jaffa cake, which, given no warning, I fumble and drop.

"You catch like a girl," he says, teasingly.

I play along with the game. "I _am_ a girl!"

"Yes," he says firmly, "You certainly are."

He says it with such intensity of feeling that I have to avert my eyes from his gaze. I look down at my clothes and wish that I was wearing something more attractive and feminine than the jeans and blouse I threw on to go to the shop this morning. But then, when we first met I was wearing a deeply unflattering grey school uniform and a figure-hiding floor length cloak, and that didn't seem to put him off, thank God. He liked me when I had a flat chest and teeth like a beaver and bad hair and was generally considered by all of my classmates (and probably most of the teachers as well) to be a bossy little know-it-all.

---

He's always looked at me through rose-tinted glasses. He used to tell me that I was beautiful, and I loved him for it, even though I knew deep down it wasn't true. I'm not being modest. I'm really not. I don't have the teeth anymore, and my hair is a lot better than it used to be, mainly thanks to a lot of very expensive conditioning products. But I'm not beautiful. I'm rather ordinary-looking, in fact. I still don't have much of a figure. I don't dress to attract attention. Men don't look twice at me in the street, unless I happen to be on the way to a party and wearing a nice dress and make-up, which is not often. I am the kind of girl who assumes that when she walks past a building site and a man in a hard hat wolf-whistles at her, he is just taking the piss. Maybe that's why it never occurred to me that when Jeff asked me back to his place for dinner, he had anything on his mind other than intellectual conversation.

---

It suddenly hits me that every man I meet from now on will judge me first on my looks before he ever even gets to know me. I'm never again going to experience that purity we had, of knowing each other absolutely _before_ there were any romantic feelings. He was the only person who ever did and ever will love me just for me. I don't have to explain myself to Ron. He knows me better than anyone else. He knows that a hug will always cheer me up, especially one of _his_ hugs. He knows that the best way to stop an argument with me is not to argue back. He knows that sometimes I just want to be on my own and read and be quiet, and that it doesn't mean he's done anything to annoy me. He knows that I have ticklish feet and like long walks and stationery shops and burnt toast and morning sex and that I'll always have a starter rather than a pudding and that I get as excited as a small child when it snows and will cross the road to stroke a strange cat. He knows every tiny thing about me, because he was there with me for most of it.

---

I've spent more of my life with him than without him. No, that's not true. Not anymore, anyway. I've spent thirteen years of my life with Ron, and another thirteen without. Eleven before I knew him and two apart. He's been there beside me for half my life. The _best_ half. I can't just throw that away. I can't let _him_ just throw that away.

---

He starts laughing suddenly, and I'm so grateful I look up and find myself smiling too. "What's so funny?"

"I should warn you, you might get a Howler. Harry said if I didn't come home he'd tell Ginny and she'd probably come storming up here and drag me away before you could do any more damage."

He stops laughing.

"I mean -"

He sighs and sinks back in the chair.

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for anything. I'm the one who should be saying sorry. And I am, I _am_ sorry. I'm more sorry than I can possibly tell you. I wish just saying it would make it alright again, but it won't, will it? I wish we could just go back to how things were before."

He says, sharply, "Well, we _can't_."

I look up again. "Don't you even want to try?"

He sighs loudly and rubs his eyes. "It's not that easy, is it?"

"No. It's not. But I want to try. And I don't want you to go. And… you don't want to leave either… do you?"

I can hear the doubt in my voice, the question mark on the end of that sentence. He just says, dryly, "I'm sort of torn between the two, to be honest."

"Maybe I should have burnt your clothes after all."

We catch each other's eye and start laughing. I think, Oh God, we can still do this, I made him laugh, and he knew I was just joking, and it's okay, it's going to be okay.

He says, "I'd have just Apparated home in your dressing gown."

It's my turn to laugh. He did that once. I was working late one night alone in the office, and he obviously decided I needed some distraction, because he turned up just wearing my dressing gown. We both had terrible carpet burns for at least a week afterwards. I haven't thought about that in the longest time. We're both laughing now, mostly with relief I think.

I tell him, "I've got a new dressing gown now, actually. It's ever so slightly too small for me."

He grins. "Does it need stretching?"

"I think it might."

We watch each other, waiting. Eventually, he says, quietly, "Are you going to come here, or am I going to have to come over there and get you?"

I don't need asking twice. It's been two years. I can't wait any longer. I can't wait another second.

"You came 200 miles to see me, the least I can do is walk ten feet across the living room."

"Yeah, the five seconds it took me to Apparate here from London has really taken it out of me."

"Shut up, Ron."

He laughs at the old joke and gives the stock answer: "_You_ shut up."

I pull myself to my feet and slowly walk across the room until I am standing in front of him.

_"Make me." _

He runs his hands up the back of my legs and pulls me against his knees.

"This is probably a really bad idea, isn't it?"

"Probably. But I don't care."

He hauls himself up to his full height and his body brushes mine.

"Me neither."

The second he says that I think, Oh, God, is he right? _Is_ this a mistake? And then, I still haven't told him about Jeff. He asked me straight out if there had been anybody else and I said no. I lied to him. Why did I lie? I should have just said I'd been on a couple of dates but they hadn't come to anything. What if I tell him and he leaves? What if this is all he wants? What if –

He kisses me, and I stop thinking altogether. I had forgotten what it was like to be kissed like this, with force and feeling and passion and love, and all of our history bound up into it. How well we fit together, how we've known each other so long - _so_ long - that sometimes it is like we can read each other's minds. His timing is perfect.

We stumble sideways, our lips locked together. We are aiming for the door of the bedroom but miss, and Ron's elbow gets badly bumped on the doorframe. He swears loudly ("Mother of _Christ!_") and jerks away from me, rubbing his elbow. I pull him into the bedroom and his mouth back down onto mine. It takes him about eight seconds to tear all his clothes off and another five to help me remove the rest of mine.

"In your own time, woman..."

"_Stop_... _talking_…"

He stops talking. In fact, neither of us says anything at all for about the next half hour, because, well, our mouths are "otherwise engaged, ha ha."

---

It is urgent, and feverish, and incredibly intense, and we do not laugh and mess around and tease each other like we used to, and - _God! _- it has been _two years_, and it is, well - as Ron says afterwards, finally breaking into a grin, _"Wow…" _I laugh and say, "I thought I might have forgotten what to do!" and he says, "You must have been practicing when you were on your own…" and I pretend to be outraged, the way I always used to whenever he said anything vaguely dirty, even though I'm not really. He says, "I know _I_ was.." and starts laughing so much he gets a coughing fit and I have to thump him on the back and go and get him a glass of water from the kitchen.

---

Even that is amazing because I am standing there properly naked in front of him and it is the first time in _so_ long that anybody has looked at me like that. When I go to put the glass down on the bedside table he grabs me around the waist and pulls me back down onto the bed and proceeds to kiss me all over my body, from the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet, my elbows, my earlobes, the backs of my knees. It feels like he is marking his territory. Not like a conqueror, just reclaiming my body as his. My body, my memories, everything I am belongs to him. It always has. He's the only person I've ever given myself to, who's seen me naked, who _I've_ ever seen naked. The only person who knows me absolutely. How could I ever have thought I could be without him?

---

I don't think I ever want to leave this bed. If takeaways could be delivered to my bedside, I don't think I ever would. I had forgotten what it felt like to be touched, and held, and kissed, and to lie in bed with someone else's warm body next to you. I can't believe it's been two whole years. I promised myself I'd never wait that long again, after - well, the first time.

---

We wanted to. We even discussed it. I know, _discussed! _But it was the height of the war, so we only had snatched moments here and there. There were more important things to worry about. I think I thought that once it was all over, then we could finally, properly be together, and until then, everything normal would just have to be put on hold. Once, after a particularly terrifying couple of days, we found ourselves alone for an hour or so, and nearly… nearly… But we didn't. Everything was very intense. Ron said we could be dead tomorrow. He wasn't pressuring me, just stating a fact. And he was right. I seriously thought about it, too. I was going to, I even told him yes, but then I changed my mind. I wanted to be able to spend the whole night with him and wake up next to him in the morning, I didn't want to have to rush it because Harry or someone else could come back at any minute. I wanted it to be _perfect. _

---

It wasn't just that, though. I realised that if we did it, it would be impossible to go back. We might not get another chance for days, weeks, months, and it would make it so much harder, not being able to be together. I didn't want to be thinking about _that_ when I should have been concentrating on helping Harry. And I told Ron all of this, and bless him, he saw my point. So we didn't. We waited. We waited nearly two years. Well, it took us a year to get to the stage where we decided we were ready, so it was only really a year and a bit. I had just turned twenty, Ron at least could say he'd had sex while still a teenager. Now I can't believe we managed to wait that long. I didn't say, but it did occur to me that World War Two had lasted nearly six years. I suppose at least from my point of view it helped knowing that I was with the right person, that once it was all over we'd have the rest of our lives together. Or at least, I thought we did.

---

The first time we slept together Ron was so nervous his arms were shaking, and neither of us said a word to each other the whole time. I'd thought that maybe he might find the whole thing hilarious and giggle all the way through, but the opposite was true. He looked like he was facing a firing squad. It wasn't unenjoyable, exactly, just strange and new. I suppose it had been such a long wait, we'd both built it up in our heads, and when it wasn't like that, it was strangely disappointing. I think we both just needed to get the first time out of the way so we could get on with actually enjoying it.

---

The second time felt more like _us_. It was later the same night. I don't think we wanted to remember our first time that way. Us all awkward and tense and uncharacteristically quiet. The second time was what the first time _should_ have been like. Obviously the pressure was off the second time. We'd had time to recover from the shock of taking our clothes off in front of each other! We'd slept in the same bed a few times, but we'd always kept our clothes on and the lights _off_, so we hadn't _seen _anything contentious. I suppose it was a bit of a shock, all at once. Maybe if we'd done it in stages it might have been easier. Ron wouldn't have been like a rabbit caught in the headlights from the second I took my top off, and I wouldn't have spent the whole time desperately trying not to look _down_…

---

The first time was strange and awkward, the second was fun and frankly fantastic, but the _third_... the third time was just a revelation. So _that's_ what all the fuss is about! Oh my _God! _It was like we finally clicked and found our rhythm and it was just incredible, like discovering you had an entirely new part of the body and couldn't wait to start using it to see what it did.

---

That's kind of how it feels tonight. The intensity of the first time, only now we know what we are doing! Everything is at the same time wonderfully familiar and wonderfully new. We don't talk much, we just lie there, and kiss, and touch, and hold each other. It feels like a miracle. It feels like one of those perfect moments you get maybe a handful of times in your life where you are so blissfully happy that you hardly dare speak in case you ruin it. I try not to think about tomorrow, or Monday, when he will leave. I can't allow myself to think about what might happen after that. I don't ever want to be apart from him again, even for a minute. I know this absolutely, but he doesn't anymore, and that makes me unutterably sad.

---

Later, after we have eaten a dinner of slightly burnt pizza and chips and are lying in bed again, I notice a large, nasty-looking purple bruise on his shin and ask him about it.

"It's nothing," he says, a little sheepishly, "It probably looks worse than it is."

"What happened?"

"Yeah… this might be a good time to tell you, actually…"

"Tell me what?"

"I've, er, got to get up early tomorrow morning."

My heart jolts. Far too quickly I exclaim, "You're _leaving?_"

"Well, not _early_ early. Just… before midday early. Earlier than today, anyway."

He obviously realises he's rambling, because he looks slightly embarrassed and mumbles, "I'm, er, in a Sunday League Quidditch team." He glances quickly at me, as though expecting me to laugh, and when I don't he seems encouraged and continues:

"A bloke at work told me about it and I thought, why not? I'm sure Harry and Ginny could do with some time to themselves for a change, they must be sick of the sight of my miserable mug moping about the place. And it's nice just to get out of the house, to be honest. I was sick of that room. Anyway," he says, brightening now, "It's turned out alright. I went down there and met them all and had a trial, and we all got on, so... They're a great bunch of lads, really. Well, I say _lads_, they're all in their late thirties. I'm the youngest person on the team, apart from Anna, of course -"

I say, trying to keep my voice as light as possible, "Anna?"

"Yeah, she's the daughter of one of the blokes who founded the team. Barry and Dave. They started it up about five years ago, after they got divorced. You know, so they'd have somewhere to go once a week and an excuse to go to the pub afterwards. That's what the team's called, actually. Divorced Wizards United. It's a bit of a running joke that we should just call it _Dumped_ Wizards United, because it's mostly a bunch of blokes who haven't got anywhere else to go on a Sunday morning because their girlfriends chucked them." He pauses, as though I might object. I flinch, but say nothing, and he carries on.

"Actually, there's only three of us who are still, uh, _single_ now" - he flushes slightly - "but we can't afford to change the kit, so we're stuck with it really."

He fiddles with a bit of loose cotton on the bedspread. "It's just Sunday League, it's not like we're any good or anything. No-one takes it too seriously, it's just a laugh." He looks back up at me and fixes me with a defiant gaze.

"It sounds great, Ron. I'm glad you're doing something."

"Yeah," he says, uncertainly, "I suppose."

---

Actually it hurts me to think of him so miserable that he just wanted to get out of the house, and it hurts me even more to realise he has new friends I don't know, who don't know me. Who don't know _us_. We've been Ron and Hermione for as long as I can remember. First we were Harry's friends Ron and Hermione and then we were just Ron and Hermione together. _Ronandhermione_. That's what we've always been. But these people only know Ron on his own, like the people I work with only know me on my own. Actually, they don't know me at all. I feel like I've been a different person these past two years.

---

When I first started in this job, I went out a couple of times with the girls from work, but it didn't last long. The evening always seemed to end up in some awful meat-market bar, with them all falling-down drunk and making obscene suggestions to the waiters. I'm not much of a drinker, so after the first two I'd try to switch to orange juice, but they kept on putting drinks in front of me, and it seemed impolite to refuse. The second night I went out with them I ended up on Flaming Sambucas and was so sick I spent the rest of the night lying on the floor of my bathroom, convinced I was going to die. Ron would have sat up with me, held my hair out of my face, cleaned me up, made me coffee, kept me warm. On my own I couldn't manage to do any of those things, I just lay on the floor and wept, I felt so awful.

---

I came to dread those evenings, but I didn't know how to say no without offending them when I'd just started in the job, so I went anyway. The last straw came one night when we ended up playing some dreadful drinking game where we all had to say how many sexual partners we'd had, and I realised I was the only one not into double figures. Barely into single figures, in fact. And I wasn't even the youngest person there! I pretended I was just going to the toilet and didn't come back. The next few times they invited me out I made excuses and after a while they simply stopped asking me. I'm sure they thought I was a bit of a prude, maybe even that I thought I was better than them somehow, but that's not true. I'm quite a private person, and my idea of a good night out never has, and never will, include discussing my favourite sexual position with Carole from reception.

---

The other problem, one that I didn't think about when I took the job - because I was so desperate to get away from all the arguments I didn't think it through at all - is that it's a semi-management position. I have ten people under me, and a little glass cubicle of an office all to myself. I suppose some people might be pleased with that, feel they'd achieved something, to have their own office at the age of 24, but it just made me feel even more isolated. I could see and hear the others all laughing and joking through the glass, but the second I went out there, the laughter would cease, as though the Headmistress had just walked in and caught them doing something they shouldn't.

---

I see now that those drunken evenings in awful bars were attempts to size me up, find out which side I was on. Was I one of them or was I Management? Nobody wants to socialise with their boss. I probably didn't help myself by always being the first to arrive and the last to leave, and showing them up. Oh, I can't blame them, I suppose. They did at least try. I was the one who made excuses not to go. I just wanted to be on my own for a while. At first, anyway. And by the time I'd decided that maybe I did want a bit of company, it was too late, they'd made their decision. I wasn't one of them and I never would be.

---

It was like my first term at school all over again. Finding refuge in work because nobody wanted to be friends with me. Sitting alone at lunch and breaktimes. Pretending it was because the kids of my own age were all "just stupid". I had somehow reverted to being the school swot who no-one liked. Not even me. Last time Ron and Harry came and saved me from myself. Saved me from being alone. This time… well, no-one came. I resented that for the longest time, that he didn't come. I couldn't understand _why _he didn't. I suppose I figured maybe he just didn't love me as much as I thought he did. Although now I can see why he didn't come, and I don't blame him anymore. And anyway, he's here _now. _He came eventually, didn't he? Whatever his reasons, he did come. If he hadn't… Would I have just let it go on forever? Would I have said yes to another Jeff just because he asked? Probably.

---

How long would it have been before _he_ met someone else? He's a lot more social than I am. He's tall, he's funny, he puts on a front of being confident and outgoing, although he isn't, not really. He used to say half-jokingly that he was lucky to get to me early before I realised I could do better. He always did walk a fine line between self-deprecation and self-doubt. But actually, I always thought it was the other way around; that I was lucky to get to _him_ early before other women realised what a catch he was. The thought of him with someone else makes my stomach churn with fear. And, I realise with sudden cold shock, there already _has_ been someone else. I'm not the only one anymore. Was he thinking about _her_ just now, when we -? I hope it was awful. I hope he was drunk. I hope it was a miserable experience and he woke up the next morning and sorely regretted it and wished it was me he was lying there with. Oh, _God. _

"Ron...?"

_Stop kissing my earlobes. _

"Mmm?"

"Was it just a one-night stand?"

He freezes. There is a very long silence. Eventually he says, clearly playing for time, _"What?" _When I look up at him I can see that he looks scared.

"I don't _blame_ you… I understand. I just... I just want to know, that's all. I wish I didn't. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay."

"It's not okay. I have no right. I'm sorry. I know it's my fault."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't say it's not my fault. He hauls himself off me and sits up, leaning back against the headboard and clutching a pillow defensively to his chest. There is another very long silence. Finally he sighs and says, clearly hoping that my answer will be '_No',_ "Do you _really_ want to know all the sordid details?"

"Well, maybe not _all_ the details, but yes, I do, Ron. I used to know everything about you. You used to know everything about me. I hate not knowing anymore. I can't bear it. There's a whole two years you were on the planet that I wasn't there for, and I can never get that back. _We_ can never get that back, and for that I'm more sorry than I can ever say. So… I _need_ to know. Whatever you tell me, I'm not going to hold it against you, I promise. I just need to know."

He gets all defensive. "Look, it's not like I've thought about it since or anything!"

"I know. You don't have to apologise. Just tell me."

He pulls a face. "Oh! I _hate_ this!"

"You don't want to?"

"Well, of _course_ I don't _want_ to! Why the hell would I _want _to?"

"Now you're annoyed. I'm sorry."

"Christ, Hermione!"

"I'm sorry."

"Stop _saying_ that! I _know_ you're sorry! Sorry doesn't help! Asking me about stuff like this _definitely_ doesn't help…"

"I'm sorry -"

"Stop SAYING that!" he yells suddenly.

I'm so shocked I can feel tears pricking my eyes, and turn my face away from him. I don't want to cry. I don't want him to feel guilty because I'm crying, like a _girl_, but I can't stop myself and the tears start to flow freely. I wipe my eyes furiously and sob, "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" It seems to be all I can say.

He pulls my head against his chest and strokes my hair. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"No, you _should_. We can't hide anything from each other. If this is going to work… and I really, really want it to, more than anything, more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. Apart from when we were sixteen and I was waiting for what felt like forever for you to ask me out the first time round…"

He laughs, and I laugh too, and we kiss, and hug each other, and he says, "God, I've missed you!" He realises instantly what he's said and his face grows serious. "I mean…" He feels like he can't mention what's happened anymore, in case I get upset. "Sorry," he mutters, then catches himself and starts laughing again: "Oh, _God!_"

I wait for him to recover then tell him, "You don't have to apologise. I missed you too. And it's okay to say these things, you know. We've got to be open and honest with each other if this is going to work."

"Yeah…" he says slowly, wriggling out of my embrace, "_About _that…"

For about three seconds my heart practically stops beating. Oh God, I've ruined it. I should never have asked him. I can't believe I did that. He's going to tell me it's not going to work, that he doesn't feel the same anymore, that he realises that now, that he's sorry, but it's over, and at least now we can move on with our lives.

"Ron -"

"Wait a minute. I need to say this." He grips my shoulders firmly to make me face him and looks me directly in the eye. "Hermione -"

_No, no, no_…

"If you think, even for a second, that you might change your mind about this in a few days or weeks or months, then tell me now. I mean it, just tell me, don't worry about upsetting me or anything. Because I'm not doing this again."

Relief floods through me. "I won't change my mind."

"Cos I'd rather you just tell me now and get it out of the way."

"I'm not going to change my mind, Ron."

"Even if there's the slightest bit of doubt -"

"There isn't."

He hesitates in the face of my apparent certainty. "Oh. Okay." He sounds almost disappointed. Or, perhaps, just unconvinced. "But if there _was_ -"

"Ron. Listen to me. I am absolutely definitely positively 110 per cent certain that I want this."

A small ironic smile appears on his face. "Like you used to get 110 per cent in your Arithmancy exams, you mean?"

"Yes. No. That was all facts and figures. This is… some things can't be quantified with percentages…"

"Can't be _what_ with _what?_"

"Quantified with percentages. It means - " I notice him grinning at me and hit him with a pillow. "Oh, shut up!"

"Sorry, couldn't resist."

"I'm just saying - oh, I give up!"

"No, go on. I'm sorry."

I can hear a note of tension in his voice and realise that his smile is slightly strained too. Typical Ron, making jokes to hide his emotions and cut through moments of seriousness. Delaying me telling him how I really feel, because then he'd have to tell me how he feels too, and then he'd be vulnerable. But I'm not going to let him turn this into a joke, because he wants to know, he just doesn't want it to be the wrong answer.

So I tell him that I love him, that I always have and I always will. That I'm never going to leave him again, not even for a single night, and I'm going to keep telling him that until he starts to believe me. And I kiss him, and with the Jeff problem still at the forefront of my mind, add, "And you don't have to tell me about… what I asked. It's none of my business what you did or didn't do when we weren't… together."

He shakes his head. "No, you're right. We should be honest about this stuff. I mean, you'd have told _me_ if you'd - wouldn't you?"

---

Guilt courses through my body. Not that anything _happened_ with Jeff. You kissed him, says the accusatory little voice in my head. You were in your knickers in his front room. That's not nothing. Ron won't think that's nothing. I glance at him. He seems preoccupied, and I sense that there's something else he needs to say, that I'm not going to like. That this isn't over yet. And I realise that when I told him I loved him just now, he didn't say it back. Maybe telling him about Jeff would be a huge mistake.

---

I'm still agonising over my decision when he clears his throat and says, warily, "OK. Just remember you said you weren't going to change your mind…"

He shakes his head sadly, as though he doesn't expect me to stick to my promise after what he's about to tell me, and is almost resigned to it.

"It was when I was going through my drinking to forget phase. This was about a year after you - left. I wasn't exactly celebrating the anniversary. Anyway, I was in the pub one night on my own - anything was better than going back to my sad single room at Harry and Ginny's - and I saw… uh… well, Luna…"

I am astonished. Whatever I expected him to say it wasn't that. "Luna!"

"Yeah, she was in London doing a course -"

"You slept with _Luna?_"

He glares at me accusingly. "You were the one who wanted me to tell you. I didn't want to. I knew you'd be like this. Hell, if it was the other way around, _I'd _be like this!"

"It's not that, I'm just in shock, that's all. I thought it'd just be some random woman you met in a bar or something, I didn't think it would be someone I know! Someone I can picture you kissing!"

He sighs and makes a frustrated sort of sound. "So it would have been better if it had just been some random woman I met in a bar, would it?"

"Yes! No! I don't know! I don't know if it's better or worse! I mean, I _liked_ Luna…"

"Well, exactly, that was just it. I saw her, and I was just grateful to see a friendly face. She made me laugh, and I hadn't had much to laugh about in ages. And she - do you still want to hear this?"

I nod.

"She said, later on, when we'd had a few drinks, that she'd always had a bit of a crush on me at school but anyone with half a brain could see that I was already spoken for, even if I didn't realise it yet. She actually said that. She was always a lot smarter than she looked, Luna. Anyway, she carried on talking, about school and stuff, I don't know, and I sat there and thought, it's been nearly a year. You're not coming back. Everyone keeps telling me you're not, and they're right. And I'm sick of my own miserable company, and Luna's funny, and she's nice to me, and she knows all about you, so I haven't got to explain all that, and I'm no good on my own. I don't want to be on my own anymore. And - I kissed her. And - well, _you know_..." He stops, and looks sheepish.

"And you slept with her."

"Well, yeah."

"So it was a one-night stand?"

He looks away. "Um... Not exactly…"

My insides have turned to ice. "You went _out _with her?"

"No, it wasn't like that either." He sighs. "Look, she was only in town for a week, doing this course. They'd put her up in a hotel. I don't think anything would have happened otherwise. That first night we were both pretty drunk, and at least one of us was desperate… "

He reads an accusation in my silence that isn't there and gets defensive again. "Look, I'd never had a one-night stand before, alright? I didn't know what you were supposed to do. I suppose I talked it up in my head to be more than it actually was. I sort of thought, you know, now that we'd... that we were going _out_ or something."

He leans over and takes a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table.

"So anyway, I spent all day at work getting excited about the idea, went home to have a bath and get changed, and turned up at her hotel room uninvited with a massive bunch of flowers, like an idiot. Looking back, I can see that she was a bit surprised to see me, and obviously not _quite_ as enthusiastic as I was about the whole thing. Anyway, she very graciously allowed me to take her out for dinner at some stupidly expensive restaurant, then I walked her back to her door and basically threw myself at her again, which I'm sure was very attractive and not at all desperate and sad. And the _next _morning she told me she was meeting some friends that night and it had been nice to see me again, and to keep in touch, which _now_ of course I can see was a polite brush-off, but _then_… oh, _God_…"

He buries his head in his hands. "I shouldn't be allowed out in public."

I pat his arm sympathetically, and he recovers his composure and continues, talking fast, trying to get to the end of this sorry tale as quickly as possible.

"I'm afraid I sort of invited myself along and she was probably too polite to say no. And I drank too much again, had a huge argument with one of her friends about God knows what, I can't even remember, but I threatened to punch him, and then started talking about going up to see her that weekend, maybe she could show me the town and introduce me to the rest of her friends… I might have even offered to meet her _dad. _Oh, just disaster upon disaster really.

Anyway, we got back to her hotel room, and I leaned in for the kiss as usual, and she said she didn't think it was a very good idea and maybe it was time I went home. I said it wasn't _my_ home, and we ended up having a bit of row. She told me that this was a one-off, and that she didn't _want_ me to come and visit her, and I asked why, and she said she wasn't interested in a relationship and even if she was, I was so clearly not over you - which I denied, of course - and that was when she pointed out that I'd called her Hermione at least eight times in the last 48 hours, and that you don't get over someone you've known for twelve years in twelve months. She said I should try and patch things up with you, and although she liked me, she knew she wasn't the one I wanted. Like I said, smart girl, that Luna.

Anyway, I got a bit upset - it was one of the low points of the whole two years, to be honest - and she let me stay, I'm sure only out of sympathy. So yeah, three days and at the end of it I felt even worse than I did before. Dumped twice in a year!" He groans and covers his face once more.

A distant memory forces its way to the front of my brain. "Oh, my God!"

"What?"

"I've just remembered something!"

_"What?" _

"She wrote me a letter!"

"Luna did?"

"Yes! I'd completely forgotten about it! It must have been about a year ago, so just after you two - met…"

"What did she say? She obviously didn't mention me."

"No, she did! She _did_ mention you, that was the whole point of the letter! I mean, obviously she didn't mention what had happened between you, but she said she had bumped into you and that you seemed unhappy and that she couldn't believe we weren't together anymore. I thought she was just interfering, and I threw it away, and haven't thought about it since. Now I wish - oh, my God, _Luna!" _

Ron reverts to defensive mode: "Look, we were both drunk, alright?"

"What, for three days? Anyway, it doesn't matter, I told you. Actually, you know, now that I think about it… I'd obviously be happier if you'd not slept with anybody, but if it had to be anyone… at least I know she was nice to you - don't tell me exactly _how_ nice, please - and that she tried to get both of us to see the error of our ways."

Ron shakes his head in disbelief. "Well, I suppose that's _one_ way of looking at it."

I force a sympathetic smile onto my face, but my heart is thumping and I feel slightly dizzy and sick. I am aware that I am placating him in readiness for my own sordid confession, hoping that his own guilt will make it harder for him to get upset with me.

"Ron, I need to tell you something too. Please don't freak out, it's nothing, but as we're being honest with each other..." I take a deep breath and plunge into the abyss. "About six months ago I went on a few dates with a man from work. I didn't sleep with him, but we did kiss."

Ron watches me intently, his expression unreadable.

"He tried to get me into bed once, but I changed my mind. That's it."

He jumps on that, as I knew he would. "You changed your mind? You mean you _wanted_ to?"

"I _thought_ I wanted to. I thought it had been long enough and I should move on with my life. Like you did with Luna."

He gives a short laugh. "Fair point. So why did you change your mind?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"Because I had - have - only ever slept with one person my whole life. When Jeff got me down to my underwear -"

_"He got you down to your underwear!?"_

"Yes! And shut up! When Jeff got me down to my underwear... I thought about you."

Ron looks appalled. "I can't decide whether to be flattered or horrified..."

"You should be pleased. You stopped me having sex with him and you weren't even there."

He grins. "What, did you think, nobody can ever be as good as Ron, I just won't have sex with anyone ever again?"

"Har har. No, it was - well, we were on the sofa, and we were kissing - "

"Do I want to hear this?"

"Yes, you do. Shut up. We were on the sofa in his flat, we were in our underwear, and we were kissing, and he reached around and unhooked my bra. In one second! I didn't even notice he'd done it. And I remembered when we were teenagers, the first time you tried to unhook my bra, it took you so long I had to give you directions."

Ron puts his hands over his face. "Thanks for reminding me!"

"No, but that's not the point. I remembered, and I started laughing, and Jeff wanted to know what I was laughing at, and of course, I could hardly explain... Anyway, he got all huffy and offended, and I realised that I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed at anything, and that I was just going out with Jeff so I wouldn't be on my own. He didn't make me laugh, I didn't especially like him, and I definitely didn't want to sleep with him."

Ron gives a small cheer, which makes me laugh.

"So I told him I'd changed my mind, and he called me - well, something not nice - and that absolutely convinced me I'd made the right decision."

"What did he call you?"

I glance at him. He has that look he used to have whenever someone had upset me - set jaw, fierce expression, that defending my honour look I remember so well. It was one of the first things that made me realise maybe he liked me more than he was letting on, and maybe I liked him back.

"Well?"

"He called me a pricktease."

Ron explodes, and calls Jeff a host of obscene names that make my ears hurt.

"Ron, it doesn't matter. I was glad he said it because it made me realise I was well rid of him. Anyway, that was my one disastrous attempt at dating. Obviously I shouldn't be allowed out in public either."

He laughs. "Absolutely, you're obviously terrible at it, you should never go out with anyone else ever again."

He makes me laugh too, although I know that behind the jokey façade of this exchange, both of us are more serious than we've ever been about anything in our lives.

"No, I've learnt my lesson. I promise never to go out with anyone else ever again."

"Or to kiss them."

"Or to kiss them."

"Or to let them take your bra off."

"Especially that."

"Say it, then."

I put on a mock-solemn expression and say, "I promise never to let anyone else take my bra off."

"Because that's _my_ job."

"Because that's your job."

"Even if I _do_ need directions."

"You don't need directions, Ron."

"And while we're at it, you'd love to make me a nice cup of tea and a cheese sandwich..."

"Well, I _could_ make you a nice cup of tea... or I _could_..."

I manoeuvre myself around so I'm sitting astride his legs and lift my t-shirt over my head and hurl it across the room.

"Nah," he says, trying not to laugh, "I think I'd rather have the sandwich, to be honest..."

I cuff him lightly around the head and he laughs out loud and pulls me down on top of him, and, well, we don't make _tea…_

-----

* * *

_**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and please take 60 seconds to leave me a review. It's the only way I know you've been here. Cheers! - PB x**_

* * *


	5. Chapter 5: Divorced Wizards United

**Chapter Five: Divorced Wizards' United**

Sunday morning. I wake to the sound of rain battering the windows and wind rattling the panes. Here in my bed it is warm and cosy, and I stretch out my toes and feel the cool cotton of the sheets against my skin. I stretch out my whole foot luxuriously and hit the back of Ron's leg. A wave of contentment washes over me. If I could stay in this moment forever... I cuddle up to his back and press my face into the soft warmth of his t-shirt, sliding my arm through his, searching for his hand. He stirs slightly, mutters something, then falls right back asleep again. No, _this_ moment. I lie there listening to the sound of his breathing and the rain against the window until I am lulled back to sleep. When I next wake, some hours later, he is dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me, pulling on his socks. My heart lurches.

"Where are you going?"

He looks round and smiles. "Quidditch, remember?"

Relief washes over me. Of course; Quidditch! _Of course!_

Do you really have to go?"

"Well, if I don't turn up they can't play, so... yeah."

"I can't believe you deliberately get up this early on a Sunday morning."

He laughs. "Yeah, I think that every single week!"

"Could I… could I come and watch?"

He looks around in obvious surprise. "You want to come?"

"I'd like to. Would that be OK?"

He looks quickly away from me and down at the shoe in his hand. For a few seconds he doesn't say anything at all, then he swallows hard and says, in what he obviously assumes is a light couldn't-care-less tone, "Yeah… yeah, that'd be cool. No-one's ever come to watch me play before. You do know it's just Sunday League, though? We're not actually any good."

"Oh, like I know anything about Quidditch!"

He laughs out loud. "Okay, okay, you can come!"

--

I sit up and shuffle across the bed behind him and put my arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly.

"Would they still let you play for Dumped Wizards United if you brought your girlfriend along?"

I deliberately, boldly, use the word _girlfriend _and I know he notices because he doesn't say anything but he goes a little pink and beams to himself. When he's dressed he tells me that he has to go home first and get changed and pick up his broomstick, and that if I'm going to Apparate I need to go to Hackney Marshes.

"A lot of Muggles play that _football _there - " he says the word with a contemptuous shake of the head - "But if you go up the top end there's a Quidditch pitch. The Muggles don't know it's there of course, because it's enchanted, but you'll see it. Kick off at twelve."

He leans down and kisses me. "Wish me luck."

And then he straightens up again and hesitates, giving me a look as though he's trying to preserve the memory of me in case this is the last time he ever sees me.

--

I understand then that this is a test, probably the first of many he will set me before he can learn to trust me again. If he can _ever_ learn to trust me again. He's leaving so I will go after him. I can see from the look in his eyes that he is afraid. Afraid that I won't come, that I'm just stringing him along, that he's put himself through the emotional wringer for nothing, and he will only have himself to blame because they _warned _him, didn't they? I have to go. I tell him, "Good luck!" And with that he leaves, with one last look over his shoulder, and I'm left alone, but warm in my bed and still feeling him on my lips. I can't stop smiling. Last night was wonderful. Damn Quidditch, taking him away from me! I hope he wants to come back here again afterwards. And even if he doesn't - the realisation hits me with a thrill of shock - I know that this time I will go after him.

I glance at the clock. An hour before I have to leave.

--

Then I remember that under my bed are a dozen shoeboxes full of "Ron stuff" that I never bothered to unpack when I moved here. Somewhere in those boxes there's a bright orange Chudley Cannons hat that Ron bought me the first Quidditch match he took me to, that is long overdue an airing. I realise with a slight smile that it's probably terrible feng shui to keep boxes full of things from your past relationship under your bed, of all places. No wonder I couldn't move on. Not that I believe in any of that rubbish, of course. I get down on my knees and pull out one of the boxes and lift off the lid.

_Oh my God_.

It's funny how when you've known someone for years you can only remember what they look like now, you can't remember what they used to look like. It's only photographs that remind you. Wizard photographs especially are a wonderful thing. They can show a smile or a gesture or an expression that reminds you so much of that person, in the way a still photograph never could. The first one I have of Ron he's twelve and he's standing with Harry and I on the platform at King's Cross station on the last day of our first year. Completely atypically, I'm beaming all over my face and Ron is frowning, I don't know why.

And the _last_ photo I have of him is from only a few weeks before it all went to pot, cutting the cake I made for him on his twenty-fourth birthday - the first and last time _that_ happened, I can tell you! - and pretending that it tastes disgusting and spitting it out into his hand. And then he laughs. It makes me smile, looking at this photograph. I haven't looked at it since I got it developed, two years ago. In between there are another fifty photographs spanning twelve years - _twelve years!_

--

Here's one of the two of us alone together, the first one of many. In this one we're fourteen and we're standing under the oak tree in my parents' back garden looking very young and gawky and awkward, and squinting in the bright sunlight. That was the week he came to stay with me, the only time he did until after we got together. Later that day - I remember it as though it were yesterday - was the first time I thought about kissing him.

--

Look at this photograph of the two of us, taken that very morning. How young and innocent we both look, especially me. Still a child, but not for much longer. My girlish mind mere hours away from being corrupted by all those powerful new emotions and feelings! And look at him, completely oblivious, as he remained for nearly three whole years after that, despite what I considered to be extremely obvious hints. I don't think you ever feel things as strongly as you do for the first time. I can't believe it was nearly twelve years ago. And I _really_ can't believe, seeing how young and awkward we look in this photograph, the things we did last night!

--

Here's one of him dancing with my mum at her fiftieth birthday party, practically holding her up she was so drunk on Tia Maria. I remember her stumbling up to me later and getting all weepy and emotional: "When are you going to marry that boy? He's lovely you know, if you don't want him I might be tempted to trade in your dad!" Here's one of him on that disastrous holiday we went on to the Lake District, looking tired and wet through and pissed off. Here's one of the two of us on our fifth anniversary nearly four years ago. We went on a day trip to the seaside and asked a stranger to take our photograph. It's so windy my hair is practically vertical. Ron has his arm around my shoulder and I have mine around his waist, and we both look rather earnestly at the camera, and then glance sideways at each other and smile shyly, and I put my head on his shoulder. I can't believe that was four years ago. If we were still together, next year would have been our tenth anniversary. If we _are_ still together, I should say.

--

Like most couples we have several anniversaries. There is September 1st, the anniversary of when we first met, on the first day of our first year at school, fifteen years ago this coming September. There is also October 31st, Hallowe'en, the anniversary of when we became friends. Because we _weren't_ friends at first. He thought I was a know-it-all, (he was probably right), and I thought he was an idiot (I was very much wrong). I only remember the date because it was Hallowe'en, otherwise I don't think I would. Then there is 30th April, the date we take as our official anniversary. The day we first kissed and friendship turned into something more. And I also remember the date of when we first slept together, but I know that Ron doesn't or he would certainly have mentioned it by now. If nothing else, just as an excuse to mark the occasion in a similar manner!

--

We didn't celebrate our last anniversary together. There didn't seem to be much to celebrate. I remember I asked him the night before if perhaps we might go out for a meal, and him saying, "Are you still leaving next week?" "Yes." "Then what's the point?" He didn't come home at all the following evening. I didn't see him in the morning, because he left the flat before I was even awake, and later on I heard him come in after midnight, stumbling about in the dark, trying not to wake me. I could have made it easier for him by letting him know I was awake so he could put on the light, but things had degenerated so much between us by then that I'm afraid I just pretended to be asleep. I remember him stretching his arm across the gap in the centre of the bed that always seemed to be between us lately, and touching my shoulder and saying, "Hermione…", and then, when I didn't reply, turning over again and away from me. It was the last time he tried to talk to me. For the next four days we hardly spoke at all. Once he came home and I was packing, and he just looked at me and turned around and left again.

--

First anniversary: We weren't even together. It was the height of the war, there was so much going on. I didn't see or hear from him for six whole days. There were more important things to worry about.

--

Second anniversary: We were together, but Harry was with us all day. He was going through a bad time. We hadn't even told him it was our anniversary; he had enough to worry about without guilt on top of all that. That night, when he was asleep, Ron took me outside by the hand and kissed me in the doorway. It was all we got, but it was the sweetest kiss.

--

Third anniversary: Things couldn't have been more different. The war was over, we'd moved in together, we were living and working in London. It was our first proper grown-up anniversary. I got made breakfast in bed, which was a nice surprise, even if he did burn the sausages and end up eating most of it himself, and then after work we went to a lovely little Italian restaurant in Hampstead and had our first proper grown-up meal out; three courses, wine and coffee. Ron wouldn't have had coffee, of course. I suspect he had a second pudding instead. So not _that_ grown-up! And not too much wine either, because we wanted to be sober enough to enjoy the last part of the evening...

--

Fourth anniversary: We went to see a terrible amateur production of The Mikado that our next-door neighbour was starring in. It was _so_ dreadful, and Ron kept laughing in all the wrong places and eliciting withering glares from the people around us, that we left ten minutes before the interval and escaped to the nearest pub for a much-needed stiff drink or two. Afterwards we walked home the long way round, across the Heath in the moonlight. Sadly on that occasion we were _not _sober enough to enjoy the last part of the evening, as Ron somehow managed to trip over a tree root and twist his ankle, so we ended up spending the rest of the night in a corridor at St Mungo's waiting to see a Healer. By the time we finally got home it was nearly eight o'clock the following morning, whereupon we both slept for about seventeen hours straight and Ron had to take several days off work to recover. It wasn't what you might call our best anniversary ever.

--

Fifth anniversary: We learnt from the previous year's mistake and stayed well away from alcohol. Instead we decided we'd take the whole day off work and go on a good old-fashioned and terribly British day trip to the seaside. It was practically blowing a gale, and at one point it actually hailed, and we had to take refuge in the beach café for a couple of hours, but it was nice; cosy. Better than sitting in a hospital corridor, anyway. We drank copious cups of tea and even had a couple of ice-cream sundaes with all the trimmings. We couldn't stop giggling all afternoon; we felt like kids bunking off school.

--

Sixth anniversary: We took the day off again. We didn't have any particular plans, we were just going to make a decision when we got up, depending on what we felt like doing – and the weather, of course. Only we never did. It seemed like such a fantastic luxury to be lying in bed when we should be at work, that we just didn't get out of it all day.

--

Seventh…

--

Eighth anniversary: That was hard. It wasn't just our anniversary, it was also four days from the anniversary of me leaving. A whole year had somehow gone past. I was very much aware of the date all day but I just avoided the issue: went into work early, stayed late, and deliberately didn't get home until gone midnight when it was officially not our anniversary anymore. I do remember that I heard the post arrive that morning and for a few heart-stopping seconds I thought maybe he'd sent me a card, a letter, _something_, but of course he never uses the Muggle post, and there was nothing there except catalogues and bills.

--

Ninth anniversary: It's two weeks away. I can't even allow myself to think that far ahead. Two _days_ seems a lifetime away. Two days ago I was alone and _now_...

--

Oh, here's another old one, Harry, Ron and I at school, sitting outside on some steps with the castle looming up behind us. We look about fifteen or sixteen, all in our school uniforms. Ron looking very scruffy as usual, Harry looking very serious. Ginny must have taken it because the next one's just of her and Ron together, pulling stupid faces for the camera. It's funny really, how those were the only two relationships we registered at the time. Three friends, and brother and sister. Looking at them now it's almost like a physical absence, as though there should be one of Ron and I, and another of Harry and Ginny, and that maybe they do exist somewhere, on another plane. Ginny wasn't quite part of the group then, she was still just Ron's little sister. Ginny and I were friends, but there were a lot of things I didn't - or couldn't - talk to her about. I never told her about the depth of my feelings for him, and certainly not those physical kind of feelings I was starting to have. It would hardly have been appropriate. "Ginny, I sometimes wonder what it would be like to go to bed with your brother." _No!_

--

Here's one of Ron and I in bed. It was one of those photos where we put our heads together and he held the camera out in front of us and took three pictures in quick succession. I don't show these pictures to anyone. You can't see anything particularly, just our shoulders, but you can just tell we've just had sex - my hair looks like a bird's nest, and Ron's fringe is a bit damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead, and you can see the sheets all around us. I would never allow a photograph to be taken of me showing my breasts or anything else, so I am well covered, but you can still just _tell_.

Picture One: I'm looking a bit shocked because he hasn't warned me he's going to take the photograph, and he's laughing at my expression.

Picture Two: I've given in and I'm leaning my head on his shoulder and he's leaning his against mine, it's rather sweet.

And in the last one we are kissing and Ron's other arm, the one that isn't holding the camera, has slid around my shoulder and is slowly pulling the sheet down from over my chest. Slowly enough that you can't see anything too provocative, but enough that I wouldn't show this photograph to my mother!

--

And in a stunning juxtaposition, the next photo's another old one, from second year, I think. Ron looks about twelve or thirteen, and he's just starting to look sort of lanky and awkward in his body. Harry still looks short by comparison - he put on a bit of a spurt the following year, but he never caught up with Ron. I must have taken it, because I'm not in the photograph. Ron looks ridiculously scruffy. His school tie is askew, his shirt's hanging out, his sleeves are rolled up, he's got his hands in his pockets, and he's wearing those characteristic trousers that were always a couple of inches too short for him. They both look so young. Children, really. Ron's looking right down the camera, right at me. Did he know then? Did I? I don't think so. There were feelings there, but I don't think either of us knew what they were. Yet. I'm sure we'd both have been utterly appalled at the idea of even kissing each other, let alone anything else. "Urgh!" would probably have been Ron's response to that suggestion.

--

Oh, here's one of us on that holiday we went on to the Loire Valley withmy parents. It sounded wonderful at first - free holiday! - but two weeks in a tiny cottage in the bedroom next to my parents - in a very old metal bed with the loudest, creakiest bedsprings you've ever heard in your life - wasn't exactly conducive to romance. I had to pretend to have a migraine one day just so we could get some time alone. There are a few photographs here from that holiday. Mum sunbathing in the garden with a Jilly Cooper novel. Dad in that battered old hat he used to wear that drove her mad. Ron at the market posing with an enormous watermelon and grinning in the bright sunlight. And one of the four of us sitting outside a restaurant raising our glasses to the camera, all looking very relaxed and happy. A warm summer's evening, a chilled bottle of wine, the sound of crickets, the scent of honeysuckle in the air. A perfect moment captured forever. Me with the three people I love most in the world. I look very brown. Ron just looks hot.

--

There's another one here that I didn't even realise had been taken until we got the pictures back from the chemist's. It's a lovely photo, one of my favourites. Ron and I are sitting in the tiny back garden of the cottage, and we've turned the chairs to face each other, sitting so close our knees are touching. Our heads are bent close together and he's holding my hands in his, and we're so completely wrapped up in each other we're utterly oblivious to the camera. Whoever took it must have been standing slightly behind Ron rather than me because you can't see his expression but you can see mine - rapturous gaze, shy smile, looking right into his eyes, obviously sickeningly in love. You could have thrown a bucket of water over me and I wouldn't have blinked.

--

It's funny, but somehow this picture's much more intimate than the one of us in bed together. I've never really thought about it before, but of course most people who have their picture taken are aware of the camera and that changes how they behave towards it, changes the whole context of the photograph. They're "performing" for the camera, even if they don't realise it. _This_ one… It's as though that's the real us, somehow. How we are when we're alone together. I stare at the photograph for a long time, lost in the memory. I remember when I showed it to my mother for the first time and she whispered, "You look lovely, you know". You can almost feel a mother's pride in her daughter radiating through the lens.

--

Actually, now I look at it again, I see that it's not of _us_ at all, it's of _me_. Ron is almost incidental. All eyes are on me; his, my mother's, the camera's. It's like an Impressionist painting; "Young woman, 23, Auvergne." My hair is loosely tied back and not quite as Medusa-like as usual, and I almost look pretty in bare feet and a cornflower blue dress. There's a kind of glow about me which is a combination of soft dappled late afternoon sunlight, and a nice tan, and that moment of pure giddy happiness that the camera has captured perfectly: "I'm on holiday and I'm in love and he loves meeee aha ha ha, and yes, my legs _do _look fantastic in this dress, and I don't care about the creaky bedsprings and my parents being in the next room, a tan this good needs to be appreciated properly, damn it!"

--

If I had to describe it objectively I'd say it was a picture of a young woman at the height of her youthful beauty and confidence, staring into her lover's eyes and seeing herself reflected back through his adoring gaze. _He_ thinks I'm beautiful and wonderful and amazing, so it must be true. At least for the fleeting moment captured in this photograph, anyway. Before my tan faded and reality came crashing in on us. Before I got disillusioned and ruined everything. Eve before she ate the apple. Not that I hadn't been eating the apple on a regular basis for a good three years at that point, ahem. God, that's such a _Ron_ thing to say! I smile to myself at the thought and allow my mind to wander to a more recent happy memory - last night, this room, that bed - before a familiar flash of orange fur snaps my attention back to the box of photographs at my feet.

--

Ron holding Crookshanks on his lap in our old flat. My two ginger boys together. This one's a bit creased because I used to carry it around in my purse, at least until Crookshanks got run over, and then it hurt too much to look at it. And here's another creased one, me wearing Ron's Chudley Cannons shirt and nothing else except a rather wearied expression. I remember how much he was laughing when he took the photo. It's creased because Ron carried it around in _his_ wallet for a while. I don't know how I've come to have it. Oh my God, _Quidditch! _What time is it? Ten to twelve, oh no! He'll think I'm not coming! I shove the box back under the bed and dress hurriedly - so hurriedly I forget to even brush my hair or bring my coat.

--

A steady drizzle is falling when I arrive, and I'm soaked through within minutes. There are only a handful of people watching the match, probably the families of the players. A few women with prams, some young kids running around, a couple of people in giveaway cloaks. Immediately I look for Ron in goal, but I don't recognise the dark thickset man there, or the woman in a bobble hat at the other end. Have I got the wrong place? What will he think of me if I don't turn up? Doubt seizes me. Surely this isn't just some elaborate form of revenge on his part?

_"Hermione!" _

Ron is zooming towards me from the other side of the pitch, beaming all over his face and waving a dangerous-looking bat.

"You made it!" he yells.

I shout back, "Sorry I'm late, I got a bit lost!"

"That's alright, you're here now!"

"I thought you'd be in goal!"

"Yeah, well, they already had a Keeper, so I'm a Beater now!"

_"Ron!" _another player barks at him, "Are you here to chat up women or play Quidditch?"

Ron grins at me and shrugs, as if to say "What can you do?", then zooms back to join the game. I am the first to admit I don't know much about Quidditch, but I can tell straight away that he's right, they aren't very good. He hasn't played since school apart from the odd three-a-side match with Harry and Ginny and his brothers in the field behind their house, so he's somewhat out of practice, but he's still one of the better players on the team. In fact, it's slightly disturbing how naturally he seems to have taken to wielding a heavy bat! The rest of the team all look pretty out of condition, mostly big men in their thirties who look as though they've come straight from the pub. No wonder the other team are thrashing them so badly. If it wasn't for their Seeker, they'd not stand a chance.

--

_Anna. _I watch the way she makes a beeline for him the second the match is over and know immediately I was right about her. Even from here I can read it in her body language, the little tug on his sleeve, the slightly too lingering hug, something about the look she gives me when he introduces us - not a bitchy look, she doesn't seem that kind of girl, more a disappointed "Oh!" She definitely likes him. He just hasn't realised it yet. But he would have done, eventually - she seems like she'd be confident enough to actually tell him, or make the first move herself. I don't think it would take much with Ron. She'd just have to be nice to him. Make him laugh. Be prepared to make the first move. He might even have liked her a little bit in that way already but was too afraid of yet more rejection to do anything about it. Nobody wants to be dumped three times in a row. Actually, four, if you count Lavender. But it wouldn't have been long. She's smart, she's funny, she's gorgeous, she's single, she can drink most of the men on the team under the table, she _likes _him - and she plays Quidditch, for God's sake! She's pretty damn-near perfect for him, in fact. Sooner or later he'd have realised that, even without her help. All it would need is that heady spirit of post-match euphoria after a win, and for one of them to take a chance.

--

How many times have I seen it happen? The enthusiastic hug that turns into a passionate kiss. Harry's first kiss with Ginny was one of those. So was Ron's with Lavender, but I don't want to dwell on that particular unhappy memory. But I do remember the time Ron won the Quidditch Cup in our last year at school. We'd only been secretly going out a couple of weeks, so everything was new and exciting. We slipped away after a few hours, hoping nobody would notice if we disappeared off for a bit of kissing in a toilet - I know, so romantic, but it was the only place we could get any privacy. Ron was on such a high after the match, he had all this energy, and he channelled every last bit of it into kissing me with such force and passion I could hardly breathe.

My God! It was just incredible! He pushed me up against the wall and almost literally swept me off my feet. It was the first time he'd really taken control - up until that point I think he'd just been grateful and didn't want to mess it up - but I'm afraid to say that I just loved it! Not so awkward and diffident _now_, Ron! It was the first time I thought those kisses might turn into something else. Another couple of glasses of the spiked punch and I might have let him do anything. So yes, I know first-hand what a dose of post-match euphoria can do to a boy. Or girl. And he's already started to get over me, even if he hasn't realised it yet. He's cut his hair, he's bought new clothes, he's got a new hobby, is meeting new people, all the classic things you do. Another few months and I might have lost him forever. I still might.

--

So I don't leave his side all afternoon and although I chat to Anna and we pretend to like each other, we both _know_. To be honest, in other circumstances I probably would have liked her. She seems smart. No-nonsense. Three years ago if he'd introduced me to her while we were still together I wouldn't have worried for a second. He never realised when women were flirting with him and if he did he just got flustered and embarrassed and made excuses to leave the room, or, as on one particularly memorable occasion, blurted out a panicky "I've got a girlfriend!". I never worried about that kind of thing. We were solid, Ron and I. And besides, he's such a terrible liar, he'd never be able to keep something like that secret from me.

But _now_… If I mess this up I could lose him again, and this time I'm willing to bet our young friend will be right there ready and waiting to pick up the pieces. So I keep my fears to myself, I put on a smile, and I try not to show how clingy and desperate I feel in front of Ron's new friends. I will show no weakness in front of her. I will stay in control. Especially as my competition is a smart, funny and gorgeous nineteen year old girl. Nineteen, tall and athletic-looking, with long black hair so straight it looks as though it's been ironed. Thank you for that, God. Make it easy on me, why don't you?

--

It's easier, somehow, to be a couple again in public, in front of strangers. These people don't know me, so they don't judge me. They don't know what I've done, they just hear Ron introduce me as Hermione - he doesn't say I'm his girlfriend, I notice - and see how caught up in each other we are, and the way I keep my hand on his knee the whole time, and he sometimes puts his own hand over mine. We both seem slightly stunned, as though we've just emerged blinking into the light after a long afternoon in the dark and cool of a cinema matinee. The intensity there was last night has gone. In public we can't bring up the hurtful, painful issues that are still to be resolved. We sit there, and we sip our drinks, and we give each other shy little smiles, and it's wonderful just to sit there with him, relaxed and happy and feeling the solidity and warmth of his body next to mine. We don't talk much - maybe we are all talked out, or maybe we just know that there is more of it to come and we revel in this quiet time. We listen to other people talking and occasionally we join in, but mostly we just sit.

--

They are lovely people, the rest of the team, here with their wives and girlfriends and kids. I can see why he likes coming here. It's a bit like a family. _His _family, at least. A lot of rowdy people roaring with laughter at each other's jokes. Ron is clapped heartily on the back several times - "You're a dark horse, aintcha? Kept that one quiet!" - and I am enveloped in a succession of bear-hugs from big, slightly drunken men who are just delighted to meet me and see that Ron has a nice new girlfriend after his last one screwed him over so badly. Ron looks deeply uncomfortable but says nothing. "It's okay," I whisper, and stroke his sleeve.

--

I remember the grey and blue striped jumper he has changed into, because I bought it for him for his twentieth birthday, and because we had one of our worst ever rows about the bloody thing. I said I would treat him to some new clothes for his birthday, so we went to Oxford St, which was probably a mistake. We'd only been in London a few months and he was still adjusting to living in the Muggle world, especially the bewildering array of things on offer in the shops. In supermarkets I'd find him staring at the shelves, unable to make a decision about which of the fifteen different varieties of sausages to buy.

--

Clothes shopping with him was even worse. Ron always viewed a clothes shopping trip in the same way a condemned man might view a firing squad. Someone who'd grown up in the Muggle world would know at a glance which shops were likely to be too exclusive and expensive to even venture into, but Ron didn't. He'd see that it had men's clothes in the window and wander in, only to realise he'd made a mistake when he was immediately approached by one of the staff snottily asking, "Can I _help _you?" The unspoken end of that sentence always being "…to find the door?"

--

Or he'd find something he did like, pick it up, and then notice the price tag. Because his family were not well-off, he'd never had any money of his own to spend before, and had no idea how much things actually cost new. The first few years after we moved there, all our shopping trips were continually soundtracked by his inevitable, appalled, "_How_ much?" I used to be so embarrassed for him, the looks other shoppers and the assistants would give him that he was fortunately immune to. He'd been looked at like that in shops his whole life, he said - the look that says, "You can't afford to even _breathe_ in my shop, sonny, now piss off."

--

He found it hard to part with his hard-earned money now that he finally had some. He'd had that installed in him by his parents, that you should save any few pennies - or Galleons - that you could, because you never knew when things might go wrong and you might really need that money. If I was with him I'd have to do a quick calculation of the cost in Galleons, usually eliciting a second "_How_ much?" and causing him to drop the offending item as though it was on fire. I remember once he was trying to work it out on his head, so he must have looked confused, and an assistant immediately swooped on us and asked, "Can I _help_ you, sir?" Without thinking Ron told him, "No, I'm alright, I'm just trying to work out what that is in normal money." The alarmed expression on the man's face - as though he'd accidentally approached a maniac - kept making me laugh out loud in public for several days afterwards.

--

If he went shopping on his own it was even worse. He'd gone from having no choice at all to having too much choice, and would get overwhelmed within minutes and start looking for the nearest available exit. If he did come back with anything at all it was usually just a couple of plain-coloured t-shirts in blue or brown that he hadn't even bothered to try on, just told himself, "Oh, it'll be fine!" and headed to the till to get out of the shop as quickly as possible: "Thank Christ _that's_over, can we go home now?" Or he'd give up after half an hour and end up in Selfridges Food Hall, gazing in wonder at the goodies on offer, and coming home with some random food item he'd never heard of and assumed was an exotic delicacy. "Look at these! They're called _samosas!_" "Did you buy any clothes?" "I bought you a samosa." "Oh, for God's sake!" Pause. "They're shaped like _triangles!_" Or he'd buy me little presents or books he remembered I wanted. He could be wonderfully thoughtful sometimes, but if you ever told him so he'd get embarrassed and undermine himself by making a joke of it - "Nah, I just wanted to get in your knickers, that's all." He'd refuse all offers to pay him back too, even though I was earning considerably more than he was even then.

--

We never discussed that of course. It would have been a mistake, we both knew it, so we never talked about it. I don't think he minded, as long as he felt he was paying his own way for things and not sponging off me. He could have been earning more money, could probably have got a promotion or a better job if he wanted to, but he just didn't have the drive. He had enough money to live on, and that was enough for him. Even when we were at school he was the classic underachiever. I just wanted him to make something of himself, to prove to himself that he _could _do it, if nothing else. He's a lot smarter than he gives himself credit for, and I didn't want to see him waste his talent, what's wrong with that?

--

I challenged him on it once, in the midst of one of our awful blazing rows in the last days before I left. I asked him why he wasn't more ambitious and he shrugged and said he was just "happy to be happy". We'd survived the war, nobody he loved had been killed, and he was just grateful for that, to be alive, and to be with me, and that the Cannons were doing alright this season. I believe I may have thrown something at him after that particular ill-timed joke. But actually thinking about it now I can see that maybe just being "happy to be happy" is a pretty fine ambition in itself. Maybe I should just stop worrying about whether he's fulfilling his potential and concentrate all my energies into making Ron happy again. I don't mean turn myself into some sort of 1950s housewife. Just that neither of us have been happy for a long time, and that's mostly my fault.

--

Anyway, when we went into the shop he saw this jumper - blue and grey and stripey, very him - and really loved it straight away, so I said I would buy it for him. He was really happy about it at first, and gave me a big hug, but then he noticed the price. Eighty pounds. His "_How_ much?" rang so loudly across the shop that several people looked round, including the _bitch_ of a shop assistant loitering nearby who caught my eye and gave me what I imagine she thought was a sympathetic "Men!" eye-roll. I was so angry on his behalf I told him that if he liked it, it didn't matter, I'd buy it for him anyway. It _was _a birthday present, after all.

--

I should have known he couldn't be argued with on the thorny subject of money. Even though he was quite happy to buy me things and not expect anything in return, he didn't like me spending _my_ money on him. So he said no, that was a ridiculous amount to spend on a jumper, and we had one of those arguments in loud whispers where you kid yourself that no-one can hear you, but in fact everyone can. He'd survived perfectly well until then without ever wearing or owning anything new, was his reasoning, so it wouldn't kill him not to buy an eighty pound jumper. He didn't need it, so he wasn't going to buy it. He wasn't even going to let me buy it for him. He could be annoyingly stubborn when he wanted to be. He said somewhat sulkily that he didn't even want the bloody thing now anyway, and I got annoyed with him and insisted, "You like it, it suits you, it's just the price that's a problem and if I'm happy to spend that money, why should it matter to you? It's up to me what I spend my money on, isn't it?" He started to argue back, and I just lost it completely and yelled, "It's a bloody present! Will you for _once_ just let me buy you something nice?" and burst into tears right there in the shop. So he rather grumpily let me buy it, and probably just to save further arguments he wore it out that night, where it received many admiring comments. I didn't say "I told you so", but I thought it!

--

Later on he came over and apologised - "I'm sorry, I'm an idiot, it's a really nice jumper, thank you," and he promised he'd wear it 'til it fell apart so at least he'd get the maximum value out of it. He obviously has, too, since that was six years ago, and he's still wearing it now. There's a rather large hole in the sleeve, I notice, and wonder if a belated birthday present might be in order, or would it just come across as a bit desperate? It was only last month, so it's not entirely unreasonable. But then knowing him he'd think he owed _me _a birthday present for last year, and we'd get involved in some ridiculous present-giving one-upmanship.

--

Maybe I should just get him something silly, like that chocolate garden gnome I bought him once. It's still a present, but you can't read anything into it all. Not like a jumper. A jumper is a girlfriend present. A jumper is saying, I choose what you wear so you belong to me. And maybe I _am_ reading far too much into it - gosh, Hermione, that's so unlike you! - but I just can't risk it. But then, would he _like_ it? Maybe he _wants_ me to be possessive, and show him how much I need him. Yes, but there's needing and there's just plain needy, and that's not good. And neither is analysing every single thing either of us says and does all the time, but I just can't help myself.

--



I'm brought crashing back to the present by the unwelcome sight of Anna stroking Ron's new hair, and him laughing and elbowing her away.

"Get off! What are you doing?"

"I've wanted to do that for ages! It's like fur! What do you think, Hermione, do you like it?"

I just smile and say, quietly, "I think it's very sexy," and watch with pleasure as Ron blushes and looks down at his shoes, trying and failing not to grin, and Anna's laugh freezes on her face.

She makes an excuse and gets up and goes to the bar, and Ron waits about five seconds before leaning over and whispering in my ear, "Shall we go, then?"

"Go where?" I ask, innocently.

He goes slightly red. "Well, uh… I was thinking… back to yours?"

I try and act surprised. Keeping my face as straight as I can to hide my delight, I ask, "Don't you need to go home first and drop off your broomstick?"

He frowns. "Are you trying to get rid of me already?"

I am horrified. "No! No, of course not!"

He shakes his head. "I'm _joking_," he says, dryly. "Anyway, I don't want to risk bumping into Ginny."

The thought of Ginny, and what lies ahead for us, brings me back down to earth again. Just being with him is okay. It's not easy, but it's okay. Having to face Ginny's fury is going to be much harder.

--

Later, Ron has to Apparate back home anyway, in order to pick up his night things and a change of clothes for work in the morning. It's a good hour before he returns, by which time I have imagined all sorts of possibilities, none of them good. When he finally does knock on my door I'm so uptight it's all I can do not to throw myself into his arms and weep with gratitude. Ron, by contrast, is in a towering bad mood.

"Sorry I took so long," he says, striding past me into the room and hurling his bag into the nearest chair with much force, "I had a bit of a run-in with Ginny…"

The look on his face is so black I don't question him further, but I don't need to, because he's so angry it all comes tumbling out anyway.

"I mean, I don't go interfering in _her _life, do I? I don't go round telling her what I think's best for her, but she seems to think she's got the right to stick her bloody nose in where it's not wanted!"

"She _cares_ about you, Ron -"

"Yeah, that's what _she_ said," he says, sceptically.

"And what does Harry say?"

"Harry knows to keep his big mouth shut."

"Ron -"

"He hasn't said anything, alright? Not that he could have a got word in edgeways even if he wanted to. I saw him for about eight seconds and all he did was this- " - he imitates an apologetic shrug - "Like, I'm sorry about my annoying girlfriend."

I follow him into the kitchen where he starts furiously pulling open and slamming shut cupboards without any real idea what he is doing.

"She can't just leave it. I told her it's none of her business but all I get from her is," - he puts on a whiny high-pitched voice nothing like his sister's - "Where have you been, couldn't you have sent an owl, we've been worried sick, blah blah blah…"

I try to choose my words carefully. I don't want to antagonise him further, but I do understand Ginny's point of view. Although I suppose at least if she's giving Ron a hard time, he's less likely to want to go home, knowing he'll have to face her _I told you so'_s. But if we're ever going to make this work, I need her back on my side.

"Harry knew you were coming here though, didn't he?"

He looks a little sheepish. "_Yeah… _but she was all" - he puts on the whiny voice again - "You left him outside a pub at two o clock in the morning two days ago and we haven't heard from you since, what were we supposed to think? You could have been dead in a ditch for all we knew!"

"Well… to be fair, you _could_ have been..."

He rounds on me, angrily. "I don't know what _you're_ defending her for; you wouldn't if you heard some of the things she said about you! 'She's got you wrapped around her little finger, hasn't she? It's taken you _two years _to get over that cow and all she has to do is open her legs and you go running back to her! Men are pathetic! Well, don't come crying to me next time when she changes her mind again and you end up sleeping under your desk! If you think she's never going to do this again then you're an _idiot!'"_

I flinch. I can't help thinking that he is using her words to voice some of the things he is feeling too. And I can't believe she called me a cow. It makes me feel slightly sick. We used to be _friends_. I suppose from her point of view, that makes it worse. My betrayal.

"And what did _you_ say?" I ask, my voice faltering.

He gives a violent shrug. "I stuck up for you, if that's what you mean. Seeing as how I'm a _pathetic idiot_." He grimaces. "So you might want to bear that in mind if you're thinking of chucking me out - I really will be sleeping under my desk again, because there's no way I'm going back _there_. Kind of burnt my bridges, if you know what I mean."

"I'm sure that's not tr -"

"Well, you don't know, do you, because you weren't there. As _usual_," he adds, cuttingly.

"She's your sist - what?"

He goes on the defensive straight away; "Oh, so you're gonna have a go at me now as well, are you? _Brilliant._ Tell you what, why don't I just invite my entire family round and you can all tell me what a stupid mistake I'm making!"

"I don't think you're making a mistake."

"Well, you're the only one!" he retorts.

I look at him steadily. "Do _you_ think you're making a mistake?"

He reddens and looks down at the floor. "I don't know," he admits. "I was alright earlier, I thought I knew what I was doing. But _now_…" He shrugs helplessly and tries to make a feeble joke of it: "I feel a bit like I've chucked myself off a cliff without checking to see if my parachute's working."

"Well, it _is_ a giant leap into the unknown. I think it's quite a brave thing to do, actually."

He ignores the intended compliment. "Or maybe it's a giant leap backwards."

"Is that such a bad thing? I'd be quite happy to go back two years and carry on where we left off."

"Well, maybe a bit further back than that. If I remember rightly, two years ago we were biting each other's heads off every five minutes." He gives a short laugh. "So not much change there."

His relentless negativity is starting to wear my patience. "I just meant, if we could go back to a happier time, that's all."

"Yeah, let's do that," he says, sarcastically, "Then we can do this all over again! Won't _that_ be fun?"

I don't say anything. He can't be reasoned with when he's like this and once we get started there's no stopping us. The only way to stop it escalating is not to answer back. It only took me fifteen years to learn that one. So I just return his gaze as steadily as I can manage, and his anger gradually melts away in the face of my calmness.

"Sorry," he mumbles, clearly ashamed of his outburst. He leans back against the kitchen worktop and rubs his face wearily. "Oh God, I'm so _sick _of hearing myself argue with people! You, Ginny, Harry… myself… There must be some sort of spell you can do, like a memory charm or something, where you go to sleep and the next day you wake up and it's like none of it ever happened, nobody hates each other, and everything's fine again. Actually, if there was just some sort of spell that would let me go to sleep for about a million years, that would be good. I feel like I haven't slept properly in months."

"Well, why don't you have an early night?"

He raises his eyebrows, and I am surprised to find that his obvious thought makes me blush. "To sleep, I mean. I can stay in here and read for a couple of hours."

He sighs. "That's quite tempting actually." He picks up my hand and kisses it. "You're -" but he goes slightly red and doesn't finish the sentence. It saddens me that he doesn't want to let his guard down emotionally in front of me anymore.

"I'm _what_…?" I ask, trying to tease a smile out of him.

The corners of his mouth turn up almost imperceptibly.

"You're… "

He pretends to think about it.

"… _blatantly _angling for a compliment."

I laugh. "Fine, don't tell me then!"

"Oh, alright, I was going to say, _"You're wonderful"_, but I chickened out." He looks a bit surprised that he has said this out loud.

"No, _you're _wonderful."

He laughs. "No, _you _are."

"_You_ are."

"_You_ are."

Ginny used to say somewhat exasperatedly that we could make an argument out of anything, but this isn't an argument. It's chess. We have to keep playing until one of us wins. Or gives up and lets the other one win, as I do now.

"Ron… what's going to happen tomorrow?"

He feigns ignorance. "What do you mean?"

"You _know_ what I mean. Do you want to come back here tomorrow night?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

"Well, okay, then." He grins. "That was easy."

Easy for _him_ to say. Actually, it was one of the hardest questions I've ever had to ask.

He holds out his arms to me and I let myself be enveloped in a tight hug. It is this, more than anything else, that I miss. Just the warmth of him standing there with his arms wrapped around me, and the bickering that is really flirting, and not caring if other people think it is an argument, _we_ know that it isn't. It's just the way we work.

"I think I'll go and have a shower," I say, when he eventually releases me.

He yawns widely. "Alright, just let me brush my teeth first and I can go to bed."

"Or you could join me."

"Nah, you're alright, I had a shower after the match."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "That's not exactly what I meant."

A slow grin spreads across his face. "But then again, I am _very_… _very _dirty…"

--

Afterwards we go to bed, our hair still damp, and Ron's exhaustion finally catches up with him as he's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. I, by contrast, feel incredibly awake. As though for the first time in as long as I can remember I'm truly alive. It's like when you wake from a particularly vivid dream and you try to hold on to it but you can feel the memory leeching away from you and in a few seconds it's gone forever. That's what it felt like when I woke up this morning. The last two years have gone and I can't remember a single thing about them; it's almost like they never happened. His hand is lying palm-upward on the pillow between us and I watch the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pulsing at his wrist. _This_ is real, and everything else is just a fading memory.

--

I think that if we can just make it through these first two weeks, it will be okay. Maybe I'm just kidding myself, but it feels like a watershed, a point of no return. If we can just make it to our anniversary without any more arguments. If Ginny would just leave him alone and stop winding him up. If Ron can let go of his anger. If I can just shut out the fear. Twelve more days.

--

--

--

-

(_Author's note: And two more chapters! I know I said it was only going to be six in all but, hey, I lied. Sorry if you were waiting for The End, but there's just a little bit longer to wait. I promise it'll be worth it. And anyway, as we all know, seven is a magic number. In the meantime, if you enjoyed Chapter 5, please take a couple of minutes to show your appreciation with a review._

_p.s: You can read the full story of the first time she wanted to kiss him in my Year Six fic, "The For And Against List", also on Ffnet. It's only a one-shot, you'll be pleased to know!)_


	6. Chapter 6: Friday Again

_Author's note: __I think of this as my Seinfeld chapter. Nothing happens - but everything happens at the same time..._

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* * *

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Chapter Six: Friday Again

It is the following Friday evening. I am sitting on my bed getting dressed after a shower and Ron is in my kitchen making a cup of tea and whistling. It's amazing these little things you take for granted. He must have done that a thousand times when we were living together, but now it seems to me something like a miracle. I got home from work last night and he wasn't back yet, but there were signs of him everywhere. His unwashed teacups in the sink, his socks lying in the middle of the bedroom floor, the wet towel he can't be bothered to hang up properly so it falls off the rail, his ridiculous shoes sticking out from under the bed just where I'm most likely to trip over them...

---

I did exactly that this morning, tripped over one of his shoes, snapped, "Oh for God's _sake_, Ron!" without thinking, then caught myself and started first laughing then crying with happiness. I had to sit down on the bed to recover. He stuck his head round the door, looking adorably confused, and asked me what was wrong, and all I could say was - wailing like a baby - "N-n-nothing! Ev-everything's w-wonder-f-ful!" He came over and hugged me and kissed the top of my head and told me I was a mental case, and I had to agree. But everything _is_ wonderful. This flat never felt like home, and now I realise it was because Ron wasn't in it. But now he's back beside me where he belongs, in my arms, my bed, my life again, and it's finally started to feel like home for the first time.

-----

Of course, it hasn't been easy. There have been awkward moments, tensions, conversations that threatened to turn into arguments but somehow didn't - probably because we both want this so desperately - but we're still here. _He's_ still here. We made it this far. It's exactly seven days since we were painting my front room and he couldn't stand to even look at me. Now I sometimes catch him watching me, as though he can't quite believe I'm here in the same room as him I know that's what he's thinking, because when I look at him I feel the same. Sometimes we catch each other's eye and just start grinning like a couple of idiots for no reason at all:

"What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing. What are _you_ smiling at?"

"Nothing."

We have - and I'm blushing even at the thought - been spending most of our evenings in bed. Making up for lost time and - well, let's face it, if we're kissing, we're not arguing. Keeping our mouths - and minds, and bodies - occupied means we're not dwelling on the bad stuff. I know it can't last forever, but for now I'm just happy to take each day as it comes. Each night when I close my eyes to sleep I mentally cross off one more day on the calendar. I hope the time will come when I don't have to count the days any more. Monday was Day One; the first day of the rest of our lives. Monday was _hell_. I missed him for every single second of it. But of course I couldn't phone him, text him, _anything_, I just had to sit there and watch the clock tick slowly round and wait, and wait, and wait… Oh my God, it was just _torture!_

---

It may well have been the first time I have ever had my coat on and been ready to leave the office on the stroke of five. I've never been less inclined to sign up for overtime. And I've never been more grateful for the ability to Apparate. At two minutes past five I was outside my front door, and at three minutes past I was being kissed hungrily up against it, before I even had the chance to get my keys out of my bag. Out in the hallway, where any of my neighbours might have seen! And when we did finally make it through the door, we didn't even get as far as the bedroom; I allowed myself to be ravished on the hall carpet! The letterbox was right over my head the whole time and I must admit, I did briefly wonder what would happen if someone tried to post a pizza leaflet through it.

---

Tuesday was better. I was so restless after being stuck in my office all morning with, ahem, _other_ things on my mind, that I actually left my desk and went for a walk into town, for the first time in ages. Inevitably, I ended up in Boots spending far too much money on expensive toiletries. My greatest weakness, apart from books. I only went in for emergency contraception, my usual potion having run out months - years! - ago and never needing to be replaced since. I had a bit of a mid-morning freakout when I realised. Oh my God, for the last few days we've been... and I haven't... Oh, _God! _I mean, can you _imagine_ trying to explain that one to him? I wouldn't have seen him for dust, I'm sure. So that meant I had to spend Wednesday's lunch hour queueing in the Potions shop in Diagon Alley for all the complicated ingredients required.

---

I've spent an absolute fortune this week, it's ridiculous. I think they must pump something into the air that causes some sort of hormonal imbalance in my brain. I'm in the shop, having just popped in for toothpaste, and the next thing I know I'm outside again with a carrier bag full of stuff and my purse is eighty seven pounds lighter. If it's made in Switzerland and contains green tea or white clay or blue algae or some ingredient hand-picked by Tibetan monks from the slopes of the Himalayas, I just can't help myself, I _have_ to buy it. I'm such a sucker for all that stuff.

---

And if it's some miracle new hair product, _well_… I must have spent thousands of pounds over the years trying to tame my untameable hair. Every new product that comes on the market that claims to tackle tangles or flatten frizz, I will buy. I have three whole shelves in the bathroom purely dedicated to hair products I have bought hoping for miracles and only used once. Ron counted them one time; I had thirty two bottles. He teased me mercilessly about it for _weeks_. He thinks I'm mad because he doesn't understand why I hate my hair so much in the first place. He says it's sexy. _I _say it's a mess.

---

Oh, God, I felt like such a _slut _when I got to the till with my basket! It was really busy, and there was a huge queue, and I was absolutely convinced that everyone was staring at me. I had to suppress the irresistible urge to laugh. The assistant gave me a knowing little smile as she was going through my basket too. It must have been _such_ a giveaway; all those expensive cleansers and scented bath oils. Oh, and the morning after pill, and three packets of condoms, ahem. (Well, they were three for the price of two, and I didn't want to risk running out, did I?) It must have looked as though I was shopping for a dirty weekend in Brighton. Honestly, I might as well have been wearing a sign. She'd have been even more appalled if she could have seen me in Marks and Spencers on Thursday, buying Egyptian cotton sheets and some new mauve silk knickers!

---

I don't know what's happened to me this week, I really don't. It's like I've had a temporary lapse of reason. I even bought candles, for heaven's sake! _Candles! _I don't even particularly _like_ candles - I've always considered them less of a romantic scene-setter and more of a fire risk. Especially combined with the silk knickers. Is silk flammable? I should have thought about that before I bought them, shouldn't I? Honestly, my practical side has completely gone out of the window this week. I've never bought sexy underwear in my _life_. In purple, too. I felt a strange sort of thrill when I paid for them, as though I was doing something wrong. I half-expected a tap on my shoulder from the store detective when I left the shop with them in my bag. I couldn't stop smiling to myself for the rest of the day afterwards, either; I kept sneaking little glances in the bag and giggling aloud at my own ridiculousness, and the thought of his reaction. They even have - oh, lord! - little silky ties at the sides, for ease of removal, I imagine. You couldn't wear them out, they'd end up in a heap around your ankles halfway through the evening. But then I guess that's the point; you're not supposed to wear them outside. They're strictly for display purposes only.

---

God, men have absolutely no idea of all the furious paddling that goes on underneath the surface, do they? How much effort do you want to bet _he_ put into his appearance this week? Even less than usual, probably, considering he's living out of a satchel and has probably only spent about thirty per cent of the week actually _dressed_. And it's silly, anyway; I mean, it's not as though he hasn't seen me looking a complete state on numerous occasions over the years, so who am I trying to convince? It's only Ron, after all.

---

Oh, and this is utterly ridiculous, too: on Wednesday, having spent my entire lunchtime queuing for potions ingredients, I then spent my entire evening making up the potion and trying out all my new beauty products. Basically, my whole evening (my whole _week!)_ was dedicated to doing things for him, and he wasn't even _here! _Because it transpires that not content with taking him away from me on Sundays, Bloody Quidditch (as it shall henceforth be known) requires him to attend practice sessions after work every other Wednesday night as well. So there I was, all clean and with lovely silky hair, and smelling of Tibetan lotus blossom, but with no-one to appreciate it. Honestly, Emmeline Pankhurst would have turned in her grave if she could have seen me sitting there waiting for him to come home like the dutiful little wife. It's the sort of thing Lavender would have done. It's certainly not the sort of thing sensible, straight-laced, would-be librarian Hermione would ever have pictured herself doing in a million years. I used to imagine, when I was about ten and didn't know any better, myself and my faceless future husband sitting surrounded by skyscrapers of books, reading poems out loud to each other by flickering candlelight. But then, my ten year old self hadn't met Ron. I think if I suggested that to him he'd have a fit from too much laughing.

---

I was going to live in a big townhouse like my parents', with a library, and his 'n' hers offices, and my faceless future husband, who always wore glasses and a serious expression and those corduroy jackets with elbow patches that university lecturers wear. In fact, he probably _was _a university lecturer, or something along those lines. Something intellectual. We were the kind of people who spent our evenings sitting around debating the important issues of the day, discussing books we'd read and places we'd been, and drinking copious amounts of red wine and black coffee. We were _not_ the kind of people who would even have considered attending a man called Fat Nigel's karaoke-themed 30th birthday party, much less actually enjoyed it. I would certainly not have found myself standing on a chair at one in the morning with some girl I'd never met before, belting out "Hey Mickey" while all around covered their ears. Ron thought it was hilarious. I suspect my faceless future husband would have considered that grounds for a divorce.

---

Now I come to think of it, my faceless future husband was, dare I say it, a teensy little bit dull. He would never have been seen dead even watching a football (read Quidditch) match, let alone playing in one, and he certainly wouldn't have chosen to spend his evening running around a muddy field in Hackney in the pouring rain when he could have been spending it with me and my mauve silk knickers. Or me and my poetry books, rather. Knickers, silk or otherwise, didn't really enter the equation at that age. Faceless future husband and I were _book_ lovers, not _actual_ lovers. By the time that kind of thing did start to enter the equation, I'd met a _real_ boy I liked, one who never reads a book if he can help it, knows the names of every team who has won the Quidditch World Cup Final since 1924, and the runners-up, and is still, even now, unsophisticated enough to actually _blush_ when confronted by the sight of me in a pair of racy pants.

---

But I'm getting ahead of myself. It was Wednesday, and after several hours spent sitting around like an idiot waiting for him to come home from Quidditch practice, I had chickened out and changed into my pyjamas instead. Not that it made much difference, because when he eventually did get home he was all covered in mud - which he proceeded to trample into my carpet - then insisted on spending a whole hour soaking in the bath, _then _wanted something to eat, and finally topped off the evening by falling asleep in the armchair. Still, he more than made up for it last night, once I'd finally worked up the courage to let him see me in my new knickers, ahem. (Oh, and it's true what they say, once you've, ah, _slept_ on Egyptian cotton sheets, you can never go back...)

---

Tonight he couldn't even wait for me to come home and turned up outside my office, which was rather a wonderful surprise. I let myself be kissed right there in the street, as my colleagues streamed past on their way home. I may possibly even have put a little more, shall we say, _enthusiasm_ into the kiss than I might have done otherwise, knowing my co-workers were watching. Yes, that's right, I have a life! I'm not just that boring girl who hides in her office all day and never goes to the work parties. Tell everyone! Spread that gossip! I _want_ to be talked about! "Did you see Hermione Granger snogging that bloke on Friday? I always assumed she was a lesbian!"

---

Ron says he feels like he is having an affair, because he only ever goes home to change his clothes or pick up his broomstick, and because he can't introduce me to his parents. I feel a bit like that too. As though I'm having an affair, I mean. It's stupid, I know, how can you be having an affair when you've already been going out nine years? But that's what it feels like, somehow. Not dirty or shameful, just... a bit like it was when we first moved in together and couldn't quite believe we were actually allowed to do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, and no-one was going to come along and tell us to stop. Giddy with the sheer unadulterated joy of it.

---

I'd thought we already knew each other about as well as two people ever could, but moving in together made me realise how little time we'd ever actually spent alone, without other people around. Those first few months there were whole weekends we'd hardly get out of bed. It wasn't just the sex, either. (Although that was good too!) It was more the freedom of finally having _time_ to ourselves, to really get to know each other, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too. The wonderful intimacy of being utterly _with_ another person. Having our own place meant that for the first time we didn't have to put other people - Harry, our friends and families, the Order - before our own relationship. It was as though no-one else existed in the world.

---

The best times were when we were lying in bed together just talking. Or _not_ talking; I discovered that we were actually capable of being quiet, too. We were finally comfortable enough with each other to just lie there in each others' arms and not need to say anything, or feel the impulse to do so, because the silence and stillness and oneness we felt was too perfect to spoil it with words. My mind a wonderful blank. I don't think I was ever happier than in those first few months in London. For the first time in as long as I could remember, there was nothing whatsoever to worry about. Not school, nor my future, nor the fact that one my best friends seemed to have a deathwish and the other was wilfully unaware that I was madly in love with him, nor the war, the war, the war...

"Have you got any more of those Jaffa Cakes?"

I look up and he is leaning on the doorjamb watching me, holding two hot cups of tea.

"No. You ate them all."

He laughs and comes into the room and puts down one of the cups on the table beside me.

"Milk no sugar. No Jaffa Cakes either, hint hint..."

He kneels on the bed and climbs over it to his side - he has a _side_ now - balancing the cup carefully in his hand so as not to spill it on the quilt.

"Why can't you just walk round the bed?"

"Laziness."

"I shouldn't have asked, should I?"

"Nope."

He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans his head back against the wall. "God, I'm knackered!"

"You need an early night."

He grins. "Is that an offer?"

I feign an air of outrage. "Certainly not! I'm not having you blame me when you're sacked for falling asleep at work!"

"Ah, but if I got fired I could just spend all day in bed…"

"Yes, you could. On your own. Since _I _would still be at work earning the money to keep you in Jaffa Cakes."

"Talking of food…"

"Oh, I wondered how long it would take you to get around to that subject!"

"My second favourite subject."

"Only your second?"

He pretends to think about it. "Yeah, pretty much."

"What's your first? As if I needed to ask…"

"Well…" - he leans across and kisses my neck - "That…" - he kisses my shoulder - "would be…" - he eases my bra strap off my shoulder and proceeds to plant little tiny kisses all the way down my arm and across my chest - "Quidditch…"

I hit him lightly on the arm and some of what the seventeen year old Ron used to call "horizontal snogging" ensues - basically as much as you can get away with your clothes still on, so if you were suddenly discovered by a teacher or, heaven forbid, a parent, you could legitimately protest, "_What? _We weren't doing anything!"

I remind him of this inbetween kisses and he chuckles and adds, "Except the only person who ever actually caught us was your mum, and she just asked me if I was staying for tea…"

"Oh, God!" I am mortified at the memory. "That's right! And later on she took me aside and asked if she needed to make up the spare room… _or_ _not!_"

He laughs and reaches out for his tea on the bedside table, then does a double-take. "Hang on, she _asked_ you? You didn't tell me that! I just assumed she didn't want us getting up to any funny business under her roof, like _my_ mum."

I feel my face growing hot. "No, but you know what my mum and dad are like. Liberal parents. I think they just assumed we were, you know, _already_…"

"Well, they were way off on that one," he says dryly.

"Yes, but they didn't know that. My mum went to university, remember. I think she put it about a bit, actually."

Ron chokes on his tea. "Don't tell me that, for God's sake, I'm having dinner with them tomorrow!"

---

Oh, yes. Tomorrow. This was not my idea, I hasten to add. I was in the shower last night and Ron answered the phone to my mum. To say she was surprised to hear his voice would be something of an understatement. So without even asking me, she invited us both round for dinner, and without checking with me first, he said yes. I suppose it's a good thing, that he's ready for us to be a couple again in public, in front of our friends and families, but I do wish she'd asked me first. I might not have been ready for that kind of family scrutiny yet. It's only been a week, after all. He handed me the phone when I got out of the shower and the first thing my mum said to me was, "About bloody time, darling!", and then she burst into tears down the phone. Mind you, my parents always loved Ron, Mum especially. I think she thought he was good for me, that I needed someone who could distract me from my tendency to seriousness. Lighten me up. So I'm not too worried about tomorrow night. As long as Mum doesn't start asking us if this means she can expect the patter of tiny feet anytime soon. Or if she might need to buy a hat.

---

_His _family are a different matter entirely. I've told him I'm ready to face them, but he says it's too soon. I don't know if he means it's too soon for _them_, or too soon for _him_. I know it won't be easy. There's every chance Ginny will yell at me, or blank me, or just plain refuse to see me. He says maybe I should just meet his parents first and then tackle the others one at a time, but I think that will just prolong the agony. It's like pulling off a plaster. I need to just get it over with, so the healing process can begin.

"What did you tell her," he asks, carefully avoiding looking at me, "About why we'd split up?"

"Oh. I don't know. I mean, she knew we were arguing, of course. I didn't really go into the details. She knew I didn't want to talk about it. She just thought - she thought it was a shame, that's all."

"You were lucky, then. I got the third degree from _my_ mum."

"Did she _really_ think you'd…" - I immediately wish I hadn't started to ask the question - "You know, had an _affair?_"

"Well, that's what she said. But then she probably realised there wasn't much chance of me having managed to persuade _two _women to sleep with me, so…" He gives a sardonic laugh.

_Except you did,_ I think to myself. _You slept with Luna. _

I pull my bra strap back up and pad over to the wardrobe to finish getting dressed, pushing the thought to the back of my mind. Ron is watching me choose a top to wear. He once told me that he found watching me get dressed almost as enjoyable as watching me get _un_dressed. I didn't believe him until he explained that he remembered dazedly watching me get dressed after the first night we'd spent together, and feeling as though he was the luckiest person in the whole world. And afterwards, when we walked hand-in-hand to the local shop to get milk, wanting to laugh because he knew what I looked like under my clothes and none of those other people walking by did. How it felt like a wonderful, mad, amazing secret, that no-one else was ever going to share.

"Did your mum keep trying to set you up with the sons of her friends?" he asks.

"Yes! How did you -?"

He laughs. "Yeah, so did mine. With their daughters, I mean. I just kept saying no 'til she got fed up with asking."

"Me too. I just told her I was too busy for a boyfriend."

"Nobody's too busy for a boyfriend."

"Yes, that's what _she_ said. Well, not _exactly_ what she said…"

---

Because if I remember rightly, what she _actually_ said was, "I'm not suggesting you get _married_, darling, I'm just saying; you're twenty-five, not fifty-five! You should be out there living life! Have some fun! Date some unsuitable men! Have a lot of great sex!" One of the few times my Mum has made me blush since my teenage years. She said how was I supposed to know if the car was worth buying if I hadn't test-driven a few different ones first? I was... a bit taken aback, to say the least. Particularly as we were in Marks and Spencer's at the time and she hadn't made any effort to lower her voice. I said I thought she'd liked Ron and she said she did, and she'd have been entirely happy to have him as a son-in-law but he wasn't around anymore, was he? She said I needed to move on. And then she picked up an extremely low-cut top and said, "Now _this_ is the sort of thing that'll get them queuing up!" I told her I didn't want to attract that sort of man and she raised her eyebrows and said, dryly, "What, _straight_, you mean?" Ha ha.

"She said I should go out and have some fun," I tell him, my voice deliberately muffled by the jumper I am pulling on over my head, "Date some unsuitable men..."

"Oh, right, is that why you went out with whatsisname, Jack, John, whatever his name was?"

---

There's something slightly too casual about the way he says this that makes me certain he knows exactly what Jeff's name is. Indeed, that the name _Jeff_ is irredeemably stamped on the inside of his brain along with an unwelcome mental slide-show of images of the hated, faceless Jeff almost literally charming the pants off of me on his leather sofa. Much as I do of him with Luna in some soulless hotel room with polyester sheets and a little basket of individually wrapped teabags and those little cartons of milk Ron could never open without getting splattered. I have no idea what kind of hotel it was, of course, and I would never be so foolish as to ask, but somehow in my mind I need it to be have been that kind of hotel; I need it to have been something sordid, something he would regret. I'm glad he was drunk. At least I know it can't have been very good, or that he won't remember much of it, or that he will have had a cracking headache in the morning. Serve him right if he did. No, that's not fair. He doesn't deserve my resentment. He didn't do anything wrong. I just wish I could stop thinking about it.

---

"I don't know," I say, evasively, sitting down on the edge of the bed with my back to him to pull on my jeans, "Maybe."

He is silent for a few seconds, then he obviously decides he doesn't want to pursue this particular line of enquiry any further, because he says, brightly, "Anyway, I don't think any of them were exactly that keen on going out with me, either. The whole ginger hair thing seems to put them off for some reason."

"I'm sure that's not true," I say, automatically, "Charlie seems to do alright."

Actually, it _is _true. A lot of women don't like red-haired men, which is fine by me. It's genetics, apparently. Some innate biological urge to select the best physical specimen for procreation. The reason women are attracted to tall men, and men like a woman with childbearing hips. You could see it sometimes at parties - women would glance at Ron over my head and you could almost see their tiny little brains working: "Ooh, _tall_. Urgh, _ginger_." - almost in the same thought. Like I said, more than fine by me. They don't know what they're missing. As Ron himself would no doubt say, "Fuck 'em!"

"Yeah, well, that's Charlie. He's a - what do you call it - a chick magnet."

I laugh out loud and turn around to look at him, my eyebrows raised high. "Excuse me? A _chick magnet??_"

He grins. "Have I got it wrong again?"

"No. No, that's right. I'm glad you're not a chick magnet, Ron." I lean across and kiss him on the cheek. "And I don't care what your mum's friends' idiotic daughters think, _I _like your hair. It's like… a stop sign."

He raises a sceptical eyebrow. "A _stop sign?_"

"Yes. _Stop_ flirting with me, I have a wonderful girlfriend with a terrible temper."

He laughs. "Well, one out of two isn't bad…"

"You mean _yes_, I'm a wonderful girlfriend, I hope, not; yes, I have a terrible temper?"

"Well, of _course_." He puts on his most innocent expression. "What did you _think_ I meant?"

He traces a line down my arm with his finger and leans in for a kiss then starts laughing instead. "Oh God, I've been meaning to tell you, there's this guy at work and him and his girlfriend go rock-climbing at weekends… He's from up here, actually. Yorkshire or Derbyshire or something. Anyway… he's got nicknames for his girlfriend's, uh -" He blushes a fetching shade of deep crimson - "You know, _breasts_."

I shake my head, half-exasperated and half-amused. "Ron, you're twenty-six years old, when are you going to stop getting embarrassed by the word _breasts_?"

He grins. "Probably never. I _am_ English, remember? Anyway, shut up and listen, you're ruining my punchline… So, they're rock-climbers, right, from Derbyshire…" He starts laughing. "He calls them - haha - he calls them _The Peak District! '_What did you get up to at the weekend, Jim?' 'Oh, I went exploring in the Peak District…'"

We both laugh, then kiss for a while and then I ask him, "So are you trying to tell me you've got nicknames for my, '_uh, you know, breasts'_?"

"No, but that's not a bad idea. Got any suggestions?"

We lie back and stare up at the ceiling to give the matter some thought.

"Shame there are no mountains in Devon," he says, turning on his side to face me and propping himself up on his elbow. "Just moors."

"Well, mine are more moors than mountains anyway…"

"That's a bit of a tongue-twister! Mine are more moors than mountains, mine are more moors than mountains, mine are mine moor than - _ow!_" I hit him in the chest and he laughs. "What was _that_ for?"

"You're supposed to disagree with me!"

He just laughs even louder. "What? _Why?_"

I just shake my head in time-honoured 'Men!' manner and he reaches across and traces a line down the curve of my breast.

"Of course, some blokes _prefer_ moors to mountains…"

"Liar."

"Hermione," he says, with an air of explaining something obvious to a small child, "I'm from the West Country, I _like_ a gently rolling hill…"

For some reason this nice little turn of phrase makes me laugh out loud. "Idiot!"

He pretends to take offence at my words. "Oh, _that's_ nice, so I'm a liar _and_ an idiot, am I?"

"Stop putting words into my mouth."

"You said them!"

"In a nice way!"

"How is that a nice way?!"

"Well... you're an idiot, but you're a wonderful idiot."

He pretends to mull over this idea. "Yeah, that sounds about right. A wonderful idiot. I could get business cards made up: '_Ron Weasley: Wonderful Idiot. Saying Stupid Things Since 1980.'_"

When I've stopped laughing, I shake my head. "I can't _believe_ you missed such a prime opportunity for a dirty joke..."

"Eh?"

"Well, at the very least I was expecting a suggestive remark about _other _things you might want to put in my mouth…"

He actually gasps. _"Hermione!"_

"What?" I protest innocently, rather enjoying his reaction.

"I'm stunned. Speechless. Look." - he points to his mouth, which is resolutely hanging open - "I'm in shock. I actually can't speak."

"Oh, I don't know, you seem to be managing it quite well."

He shakes his head in wonder. "And I always thought you were a _nice_ girl…"

"I _am_ a nice girl. I'm just a nice girl who's been hanging around with _you_ for far too long, that's all."

"Hey, don't blame this on _me_, _you're _the one who said it! Such filth never even crossed my mind!"

"Only because you were so distracted by my gently rolling hills."

He grins. "Well, they _are_ rather distracting…"

We kiss some more and then I push him gently off me and ask,

"Ron?"

"Mm?"

"Do you want to go out tonight? We haven't been out all week."

He screws up his face in pretend deep thought. "Ummm… let me think... _no_. Why, do you?"

I smile. "No. I don't know what I was thinking."

He puts his arm around my shoulder and we lie there contentedly for some time, gazing up at the ceiling in rare silence and playing slow footsie, me trying to wrestle his sock off his foot just using my toe.

This is wonderful. It's perfect. I want to lie here like this forever. If we didn't have to go to my parents' tomorrow, I probably would. I glance at the alarm clock. This time tomorrow, in fact.

"Have you told your family yet?" I ask, as lightly as I can, "You know, about me?"

He pretends not to hear.

"Ron, have you t-"

"No."

"When are you going to tell them?"

"Soon," he says, evasively.

"I just think maybe it would be better if they heard it from you rather than from Ginny."

"Mm," he says, noncommittally.

"Don't you?"

"Mm," he says, again.

"Isn't it your dad's birthday soon?"

Pause.

"Ye-ah..."

"Well, couldn't we...?"

"I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Why not?"

"The whole family'll be there, Hermione. And anyway -" he gets a sudden stab of inspiration - "It wouldn't be fair to my dad, would it? Everyone arguing on his birthday."

My heart sinks. "You think there'll definitely be an argument, then?"

I take his silence as a yes.

"What about Dartmoor and Exmoor?" he says, brightly, in a blatant attempt to change the subject, "You know, for your -" - he gestures towards his chest - "Cos you said they were more like moors than mountains…?"

"Maybe I should just go and see Ginny myself, get everything out in the open..."

He sits up so fast he knocks his pillow to the floor. "_No_," he says, firmly.

"Well, yes, but -"

"Hermione," he says, sternly, "You've got to trust me to sort this out myself, alright?"

"I _do_, I'm just saying -"

"Do you trust me or not?"

"Yes, of course, but -"

"Promise me you won't go and see Ginny."

"But -"

"_Hermione!_"

"Well -" I give in, grudgingly. "Yes, alright."

He leans down to retrieve his pillow from the floor. When he sits up again our eyes meet and he sees my pleading expression and sighs.

_"What?"_ he says, in a resigned sort of voice.

"I just want everything to get back to normal as soon as possible, Ron, you understand that, don't you?"

"Okay, but do you think that _for once _you might actually trust me to be able to do something without your help and not to make a total hash of it?"

"I don't think that at all," I say, hurt at the very suggestion.

He throws up his hands in frustration. "Then let me bloody handle it!"

"Well -"

_"Okay?"_

"Okay, but -"

He screws his eyes tight shut, as though in pain, and moans softly.

"I just want a chance to _explain_," I plead.

He gives a frustrated sigh. "Hermione, it took you the best part of a weekend to explain it to _me_, do you really think that's such a good idea?" He shakes his head. "And I still don't really understand it…"

I am dismayed. "You don't?"

He shrugs. "Not really."

I am at a loss for words. "Well..." I say, uncertainly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Actually, you know what? Could we just _not_ talk about it?"

"I'm sorry," I tell him, in a small voice, "I thought that's what you wanted. An explanation."

"To be honest, Hermione, I really don't care anymore."

"You don't…? But -"

He sighs loudly. "You know when I said I didn't want to talk about it…?"

I open my mouth to reply and then close it again.

"It was about three seconds ago if that helps," he adds, dryly.

We sit there in uneasy silence for a while and then he swings his legs off the bed and heads for the door.

"Where are you going?"

He stops dead in the doorway and turns around, looking half-amused, half-exasperated. "Hermione, you know I love you, but you _seriously_ need to stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"_Well... _every time I get out of bed or leave the room you ask me where I'm going."

"Do I?" I ask in a faint voice, thoroughly aware that yes, that's exactly what I do.

"Yes, you do, and I don't get it. Why do you think I'm going to leave?"

"I - I don't know…"

_"You_ were the one who left _me_." His voice is steady, but I can hear an underlying note of tension.

I shake my head. "I don't know. I don't mean to do it."

"Well, could you stop? It's kind of annoying."

"I'm sorry."

"Fine. And in answer to your question, I'm going into the kitchen to see if there's anything to eat. I'll be about two minutes, then I'll be coming back in here, is that alright with you?"

"Yes, of course, I -"

"I can time myself if you want."

He leaves the room.

"Ron!"

I leap up and follow him into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, I really am. I honestly didn't realise I was doing it. I'll try to stop."

"Fine," he says again, clearly not wanting to discuss it any further. He holds up a lone tin of beans. "It's this or we get a takeaway."

"I'm really, really sorry, Ron."

_"Fine_, now what do you want to eat?"

"You're angry with me, aren't you?"

He gives a frustrated sigh. "No, I'm not, I'm just _hungry_. Do you want to get a pizza?"

"I don't mind," I say, timidly, "Whatever you want."

"Or we could get Chinese, would you rather have Chinese?"

"Honestly, I don't mind."

"Or a curry?"

"Whatever you want."

His expression darkens. "You could have an opinion, though."

"I don't mind. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy."

"For Christ's _sake!_" he explodes suddenly, "Will you stop _agreeing_ with me?"

I am stunned. "What do you mean?" I ask, falteringly.

"You never used to agree with me all the time. I'm not going to leave just because you say you'd rather have Chinese than Indian. We argue. We always have. We are _good_ at arguing. I don't agree with everything you say, and you certainly don't agree with everything _I_ say. Please don't start now."

"I'm sorry. I just want to make you happy."

"Fine, then stop being so bloody _nice_ to me all the time!"

"I just want everything back to how it was before."

"So do I, but that's not going to happen, is it? It's definitely not going to happen if you keep acting differently."

"I'm sorry."

He smacks himself in the forehead and makes a frustrated sound. "Okay. Look. You _really_ need to stop apologising. It doesn't change anything, and to be honest, it's driving me nuts."

I start to say I'm sorry, but then catch myself just in time. "This isn't going to be easy, is it?"

"No, it isn't. Did you think it would be?"

"No, of course not."

He sighs and rubs his eyes wearily. "I think... I think that if we can, we should just try and get on with things. Not pretend nothing's happened, just... stop talking and thinking about it all the time. I'm sick of thinking about it all the time. I've had two sodding years to think about it. I just want to be with you _now_. I don't mean never mention it again, just... stop... mentioning it... _all... the fucking... time..._"

---

I stare at him. He's tense and angry. I'm guilty and unhappy. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought. No, that's not true. I knew this was going to be hard. We might not get through this. It scares me so much to imagine a future without Ron in it. Now I know that I really _can't_ live without him. Ron has all the power, if only he knew it. I _owe_ him. I'm the one who left. I have to do all the running. I have to win back his trust. I have to do every last thing I can to save us.

---

And even if I can… It's never going to be the same. _We're_ never going to be the same. There will always be a tension there, that wasn't there before. A nagging doubt in both our minds. The unanswered question. Will she leave again? Will _he? _I used to always know what he was thinking but I don't anymore. When I look at him now I wonder whether there's a part of him that hates me for what I put him through, or wonders if this time will be any different. Does he believe me when I tell him I love him and that I will never leave him again? What does he _feel_ when he looks at me now, does he feel the same as he used to about me, or has that unconditional love we used to have gone? Does he wonder if he is doing the right thing? Does he wake up each morning and look across at me beside him and wonder if I will still be there tomorrow, or the day after that, or in a year's time?

---

Every morning when I wake up, I wait as long as I possibly can before opening my eyes because I have this crippling fear that when I do the bed will be cold and empty beside me, just as it was that very first morning. When I come home again I find myself hesitating for a second before turning the key in the lock, because I'm afraid that when I push open the door the flat will be in darkness and he will have gone. What if he changes his mind about wanting this to work? What if he realises he can't forgive me? What if he just _leaves?_

---

There is, I admit, a tiny nagging doubt that perhaps this is all part of some elaborate plan of revenge on his part. But that's just me being paranoid. Ron is - or at least _was_ - incapable of that kind of deceit. He is all surface. I don't mean he's shallow, far from it, just that he wears his heart on his sleeve. All his emotions, love, anger, fear, resentment, are on display for everyone to see. Ginny once said she thought that was why we worked so well together, that Ron was the heart and I was the brains of our relationship. I always thought that was unfair to both of us - I have feelings and emotions too, and he's smart, and perfectly capable of thinking before he expresses his feelings. I never quite forgave her for that comment. But she was right in one way. We did work well together. I hope we can get that back. We need to get that back. Because if we _can't_…

---

"Look," he says, clearly struggling to stay calm, "_Have_ a fucking opinion on things. Give me those little withering looks when I make rubbish jokes. Tell me off for not picking my socks up. Have a go at me for my swearing. All those things… are why I love you. And anyway, those things aren't the problem. In case you hadn't noticed, there's just one big problem, and unless you've somehow invented some kind of time travelling device that means you can go back two years and not leave in the first place, there's not a blind thing you can do about that. Just... stop worrying about upsetting me. 'Cos believe me; if you've upset me, you'll know about it."

He stops and inhales deeply, obviously relieved to have finally got it all off his chest. We look at each other.

_"Well?" _he demands.

I don't know what to say. It's all too much, all of a sudden. I thought it was going so well and the whole time he's been having these doubts... Tears roll down my face and my breath starts to come in raggedy sobs.

"H-how... can you say... you lo-lo-love me... in one b-breath... and then... tell me you don't care anymore in the... n-next?"

"When did I say that? I never sai -"

_"Just now!" _I wail, "When we were in the bedroom! You sa-said - you didn't care anymore! Well, if you don't _care_, why do y-"

"I just meant I don't care about the _reasons_, that's all! What's the point in going over and over all this stuff? You left, everything was shit, you're sorry, the end. What does it matter _why_ you left? If there had been someone else then yeah, I would still be bothered, and I probably wouldn't be standing here now, to be honest, but seeing how it all seems to have been about some stupid shit that went on in your head that you keep saying had bugger all to do with me…"

He shrugs. "I've spent two years wondering why you left and now you've told me, and to be honest, I'm none the wiser. So... I've just decided to stop caring."

I am stunned. "How can you just _decide_ to stop caring?"

"Because otherwise I'd spend the rest of my life wondering about something that even _you_ don't seem to be able to explain properly, and I can't be bothered with it anymore. You say you're not going to leave again and I've got to believe that, haven't I?"

"You've _got_ to? Then… do you believe me or don't you?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. It's just easier to believe you than not to, that's all. If I _didn't_ believe you... well, I might as well give up and go home now. Might as well just say, fuck it, it's over, it's not worth even trying. Basically, I can believe you or I can believe Ginny, and I've decided to believe you."

"But what about what _you_ believe?"

"I've just _told_ you; I've decided to believe _you_."

It sounds to me as though he's trying to convince himself of something that actually, he doesn't believe at all, and I tell him so.

He looks at me unhappily. "I know you always think talking about it helps, but honestly, this time…? I don't think it will. I just want to forget about the whole damn thing. I don't ever want to talk about it again. I don't ever want to _think _about it again. Can't we just try and have a nice weekend without bringing up all the stuff that's happened, or Ginny, or anything else? Can't we at least just agree on that? You'll stop pestering me about telling my family, and I won't leave. OK? Happy with that?"

I nod dazedly, although there are a thousand questions whizzing around my head. But I can never ask them, because he _doesn't want to talk about it. _

"I'm sorry, Ron."

"Oh yeah, and the _other_ thing you're gonna stop doing is apologising for every damn thing. Because _I swear_…" He leaves the sentence hanging, but it is clear that the consequences will not be good.

"Okay," I say, timidly.

He lets out a long sigh. "Alright, then. Good. Now, what do you want for dinner?"

---

* * *

---

An hour later we are sitting in the front room with the remnants of a pizza and a DVD of _Notting Hill_, that was the best of a bad bunch on offer at my local corner shop. Ron drags the spare chair - the one he spent a whole night sitting in avoiding my eyes this time last week - over to the others so he can put his feet up, and then decides to sit opposite me in that one and use the chair beside me as a footrest instead.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting comfortable."

"What's wrong with this chair?"

"View's better from over here."

"Don't be silly, you can't possibly see the screen properly from there."

"Who said anything about the screen?"

He gives me a winning smile and I feel myself going a little pink in the face. I don't really know what to say to that. To cover my blushes I busy myself with setting up the DVD, conscious of his gaze upon me the whole time. I sense we're not going to make it to the end of this film. _Again_. I don't think I've ever managed to sit through a whole movie with Ron in the entire time I've known him. Even those films I thought he might like he got bored with. We watched _Raiders Of The Lost Ark _one Boxing Day at my parents', and he fell asleep halfway through it. Mind you, my dad plying him with sherry all afternoon and banging on about how Michael Schumacher is the worst thing to have happened to Formula One in decades can't have helped. It was quite funny, actually, my dad had obviously forgotten that Ron was a wizard and thus had no idea what he was talking about, and at first Ron just nodded every couple of minutes, then after a while he started joining in with opinions of his own on the subject, even though he knew literally nothing about it. It was rather sweet, really. Trying to bond with my dad. Not that he needed to; they both liked him already. _Like_ him, I mean. Everything about Ron has been past tense for so long I'm finding it hard to start referring to him in the present tense again. Talking of which -

"This had better be funny..."

"You'll like it, honestly, there's loads of swearing in it."

He laughs out loud. "Damn! You know me too well!"

---

Inevitably, Ron takes an instant dislike to Hugh Grant ("He's the sort of bloke you just want to chin…") and can't understand why Julia Roberts is so popular ("_Really? _She's famous? But she looks like a frog!"). In fact, he talks incessantly throughout the entire film, asking stupid questions ("Who's this again?") and making sarcastic comments ("I've _been_ to Notting Hill and it doesn't look anything _like _that!"), and thus continually misses important plot points which then makes it even harder for him to follow what's happening. I can cope with this - it's not as though it's _Citizen Kane_, after all - but it's the reason we never go to the cinema. The one and only time we went someone sitting behind us threatened to punch him and we had to leave halfway through the film. He just thought it was hilarious, of course: "Seriously, mate, please _do_ punch me. I'd be grateful for the distraction, to be honest. Anything's got to be better than sitting through this crap… I had to drag him out by the arm before the man took him up on his offer.

I don't mind too much. I'm not much of a film-goer myself, so I don't really miss it. And anyway, I can tell that he's just being so manically cheerful because he feels guilty for shouting at me earlier, and I'm grateful for that. Ron being silly is infinitely preferable to Ron being annoyed, after all.

---

"How long is this film again?"

I sigh. "About two hours, why?"

_"Two hours!"_

"You have the attention span of a gnat, Ron."

He chuckles and turns his attention back to the screen.

Ten minutes later I am distracted by him lifting his feet off the chair and placing them carefully and deliberately on my knees. I look up to see him grinning at me.

"Ron…" I say, wearily.

"Hermione."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm resting my feet, what does it look like?"

I sigh, and return my eyes to the screen. I will not rise to this. And besides, I quite like feeling the weight of his feet upon my legs. It's those little intimacies I miss. When I steal a glance at him sometime later I notice that he has dozed off and it makes me smile. He can sleep through practically anything. Car alarms. Lovers' quarrels outside our window. Cats meowing for their breakfast. Storms. His own birthday party once. And now, apparently, Hugh Grant films. I take the toe of his sock between my thumb and forefinger and tug gently. And then tug a little more. I have to suppress the giggle that threatens to burst out. Another tug.

"I'm not asleep," he says, without opening his eyes, but smiling slightly.

I tug a little bit more. I know that eventually he's going to jump up and grab me and hang me upside down, or throw me over his shoulder and spin me around, or tickle me half to death until I beg him to stop, and just the anticipation of waiting for that moment is electric.

Another tug.

He opens one eye. "You do realise if that sock comes off there'll be consequences, don't you?"

"Well move your feet, then."

I know full well he's not going to move his feet. I'm counting on it, in fact. Pulling the sock quickly over his heel I yank it off completely and hurl it behind me without even looking to see where it lands.

"Right," he says, still not moving, "You're really in trouble now."

"I'm quaking."

"You bloody should be."

"Why, what are you going to do to me?"

"You don't want to know."

"I do want to know, that's why I'm asking."

"Seriously, you don't want to kn_aaarghhh! _Don't! _HermiOHneee!!_"

I have yanked off his other sock and hurled it randomly across the room.

He shakes his head sorrowfully. "You _really_ shouldn't have done that."

He starts to get up and I shriek and run away from him - not too fast - and he catches me up quickly and grabs me around the waist and wrestles me to the floor, sitting astride my stomach and pinning my wrists to the carpet above my head.

"That's it! You've really done it now! You can't force me to watch Hugh Grant films and steal my socks and not expect to be punished!"

"I haven't _stolen_ them!" I protest, still laughing, "Look, there's one, up on the bookcase!"

He swivels around to look and the reproachful expression on his face when he turns back to me reduces me to paroxysms of helpless laughter.

"I... can't... breathe!"

"Should've thought of that before you started throwing my clothes around the room, shouldn't you?"

"Get… off… me!"

"Or what?"

"Or... "

"You're hardly in a position to bargain."

He has a point.

"Or… I'll withhold sex for a month!"

Disappointingly, he doesn't even blink. "No, you won't."

"I will!"

"You won't. You'd go mad before _I_ would."

"Sure of that, are you? Happy to risk it?"

He pretends to think about it.

"What are we including in our definition of sex here?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"_Everything_. You can't touch me at all."

"Can I watch?"

I laugh out loud. Damn him. "No!"

"What about kissing?"

"No. Nothing at all. No kissing, no touching, no _watching_ -" I can see him thinking of a get-out clause before I've even finished the sentence - "No even seeing me naked..."

He groans. "Are you going to start wearing that full length nightie again?"

"I haven't worn that in five years!"

"And yet I still wake up in a cold sweat remembering it…"

"It always seemed to end up around my armpits come the morning anyway…"

He chuckles. "True. I swear that wasn't me, though."

"You know that was a present from your mum?"

"I know. You'd think she didn't _want_ grandchildren!"

I take advantage of his temporary distraction to shove him sideways, so he slips off of me and rolls onto the carpet, and I take the opportunity to reverse our positions, sitting astride him and pinning his wrists to the floor, although we both know he could get me off him in a second if he wanted to.

"I _knew _you couldn't last a month!" he says, laughing delightedly.

"I lasted two _years_ perfectly well without it, thank you very much! Which is -" I stop myself just in time. _More than you did. _

Which is _what?_" he teases.

I think fast. "Which is not something I ever want to have to repeat."

He grins. "Well, _hopefully_, if I've got anything to do with it, you won't have to…"

"I'll hold you to that."

"Yeah, 'cos I'm really going to have to struggle to keep _that_ bargain…" he says, dryly.

I stretch out my legs and rearrange my body so I am lying on top of him, resting my cheek on his chest, and he strokes my hair. It's nice. Behind us the music swells. Julia is doing her big emotional speech: _"I'm just a girl. Standing in front of a boy. Asking him to love her." _

"God," exclaims Ron, loudly, "This film is _shit_…"

"You think _this_ is bad, believe me, you'd have _hated_ Pride And Prejudice…"

"We should have got that pirate movie. I liked the sound of that."

"You'd have got bored with that too, it's about three hours long."

"True. Sorry."

"That's alright. I don't mind. This is better."

"_Way_ better," he agrees.

"I'm not too heavy?"

"No, I quite like being used as a mattress."

I laugh, and then just lie there contented, closing my eyes and feeling his fingers moving lightly in my hair.

"What shall we do now?" he asks, a hint of mischief in his voice.

I play along. "I don't know, what do you suggest?"

"I dunno, I'm stumped. You think of something."

"Well... we could play the Either/ Or game..."

"The _what_ game?"

"The Either/ Or game. You know - you _must_ permanently give up _either_ sex _or_ chocolate."

He frowns. "Or what?"

"That's it, you get two choices. That's why it's called the Either/ Or game. There's no third option."

"There's always a third option. And in this case it'd be death."

"You'd rather _die_ than give up sex or chocolate?"

"You sound surprised. You have _met_ me before, right?"

"Just answer the question."

"Fine, fine! I'd give up chocolate, then. As long as I can still have cakes and sweets and sugary tea, I reckon I could just about live without Kit Kats."

"Damn! I _knew_ I should have made it sex or tea!"

He chuckles. "Then I'd _definitely_ have taken death... Alright, here's one for you: you _must_ permanently give up _either_ sex _or_ books. And don't tell me you'd take death..."

"Aaargh! Why are you so _annoying?_"

"Because it winds you up. Come on, answer the question, sex or books?"

"I thought we'd already established I couldn't give up sex?"

"Yeah, but that was when you didn't have a choice. I'm giving you the option. You can have _me_, or..." - he waves his arm expansively at the bookcase - "You can have _them_."

I pretend to mull it over. "_Hmm_... Let me think... Ron versus books, Ron versus books..."

"Hey!" he protests, "You shouldn't need to _think_ about it!"

"Books.. _Ron... _Ron.. _books_... Gosh, that really is a difficult one..."

"No, it isn't."

_"Well._.. I've been reading books for twenty three years, so they do kind of have a head start..."

He shakes his head sadly. "I think I can see where this is going..."

"Of course, you don't need a partner to read a book -"

"You don't need a partner to have sex, either."

I shove him and he laughs. "I'm just _saying!_"

"You can read a book anywhere -"

"You can take _me _anywhere too!"

"Not on public transport."

"Well - yeah, alright, maybe not on public transport. But anyway, you're a witch, what are you doing on the bus in the first place? Apparate there, save yourself an hour, then you can have a quickie _and_ read a chapter of your book before you start work!"

He looks insufferably pleased with himself after coming up with that solution, and I shake my head.

"You're missing the point. Books are portable -"

"_I'm_ portable!"

"Yes, but I can't, uh, _read_ you in my tea break, can I?"

He grins. "Depends. Has your office got windows?"

I ignore him. "Books don't think they're funny. Books have things to say on every subject, not just food and Quidditch. If you don't like the particular book you're reading you can just put it down and pick up another one." - I move on quickly before he can start thinking about the implications of that statement - "Books don't answer back. Books don't leave their shoes in the middle of the floor so I can trip over them -"

"Books don't bring you a cup of tea in bed every morning, either."

"Books don't get all huffy if you're not in the mood to read them."

"Books don't care whether you read them or not. And they can't read you _back_, either..."

"Books are a _silent_ pleasure."

"_I'm_ -" He catches himself and laughs. "Yeah, alright. I'll give you that."

"Books last for _hours._.."

"Not the way you read them. And I'm gonna ignore that one, thanks very much."

"So I _suppose_... taking all of that into consideration... when you think about it in that way... I'd have to say... the books win!"

He shakes his head in disbelief. "You are a sad case, Hermione Granger."

"_Well..._ you could always try to change my mind..."

He grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

I lean up and kiss him and then he says, laughing against my mouth, "Actually, I think I've changed my mind, I'd rather have the chocolate..."

"_Fine_, you have a biscuit, and I'll read a book, and that's our evening sorted, isn't it? A fine pair we are!"

He gives an exaggerated sigh. "Are you banging about your gently rolling hills again?"

I laugh, despite myself. "That's going to catch on, isn't it?"

"Probably."

"Ron," I plead, "Promise me you won't refer to them as my gently rolling hills in front of my parents tomorrow."

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. You would."

He sniggers. "Can I tell them I've spent the week exploring the Peak District?"

_"No!"_

"Shame." He yawns. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Not yet."

I lay my cheek against his chest. His t-shirt is old and soft from a thousand washes.

"I love this t-shirt," I murmur.

"Do you?" He sounds surprised. "It's just an old t-shirt."

"It's red."

"So?"

"So it's my favourite colour."

"Your favourite colour's blue."

"It's my favourite colour on _you_." I slap his arm gently. "Pedant."

"Even though it clashes really badly with my hair?"

"Well, maybe that's why I like it."

"Weirdo."

"Oh, thanks!"

"Yeah, but in a _nice_ way," he adds, with an ironic wiggle of the eyebrows.

We both laugh and he hugs me tightly to him, reaching for my hand and threading his fingers through mine. I tilt my head and look up at him.

"Can I ask you something?"

He hesitates for a second. "'Course."

"Your hair."

"What about it?"

"Any plans to grow it back?"

He laughs and the movement shakes my body as well as his. "I knew it! You hate it, don't you?"

"No! No, I don't _hate _it… I just… there's nothing to hold _onto_, that's all."

He laughs again and lifts his head off the floor to look down at me, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"Shut up! I just meant when we're kissing, that's all! You always have to make something filthy out of it!"

"You've gone quite red, dear," he observes, grinning, then sees how embarrassed I am and adds quickly, "Yeah, well, I'm finding it a bit cold around the ears anyway. If you want to get off me so I can fetch my wand I can do it now."

I shake my head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Suit yourself. I'm just enjoying the fact that we can do this without me whacking my head on the bookcase."

I can't help a small smile. Our old flat was _very_ small, with very little floor space, especially once Ron had put a stretching spell on the sofa so he could lie on it without his legs hanging off the end. I don't suppose many people have a bespoke seven foot sofa in their rented flat, but we did. A sofa, a lamp, a tiny kitchen table with two mismatching wooden chairs, one of which had a wobbly leg, three entire walls filled from floor to ceiling with books, and a lone broomstick propped up in the corner, which was Ron's sole contribution to the décor. No need for a television at least, not when you are going out with a wizard. Especially not when you are going out with a wizard with Attention Deficit Disorder. God,I _loved_ that flat.

"Well… I'm glad you like it. Maybe -"

I hesitate.

"Maybe what?" he murmurs, sliding his other hand up the back of my jumper and making me shiver.

"Maybe you could move some more of your stuff in. I mean, there's plenty of room..."

_Stay here. Stay here with me forever. _

"Maybe," he says, after a short pause, and I wish I could look up and see his expression, so I could know for certain what he means by it. "Maybe" could mean anything. _Maybe_, in a couple of weeks, I might consider it. _Maybe_, I really mean no, but I'm just stalling for time. _Maybe_, when hell freezes over. I should never have asked him. It's still too soon. Five days is nothing. He could leave tomorrow and it would all be over.

He shifts under me and I snap out of my reverie and lift my head to look at him questioningly.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "Dead leg."

We lapse into silence again. I can't bear these moments of tension when we have nothing to say to each other. Or, rather, when we have so much to say, that can't be said. The elephant in the room. He doesn't want to talk about it. I'm afraid to talk about it in case I drive him away. So; the awkward moments. Both of us dragged down by the dark thoughts in our heads, and trying desperately to claw our way back to the surface, towards the light. We've hardly left my flat all week, except to go to work. Maybe that's the problem; we've been spending too much time together stuck in this flat. I thought that was what he wanted but maybe it's just what _I _wanted. I'm clinging to him like a shipwrecked woman to a life raft, as though if I let go, even for a second, I'll drown. That's why he was so angry with me earlier; he feels like he's trapped here with me. He can't even leave the room without me asking where he is going. I'm stifling him. Maybe what we need is a change of scene. A gulp of air.

"Ron?"

"Mm?"

"What do you want to do tomorrow?"

He turns it back on me straight away. "What do _you_ want to do?"

"I don't know, I just thought maybe we could do something together. Go on a day trip or something."

"What, like the zoo?" he says, dryly.

"Well… not necessarily the _zoo_… I just thought it would be nice, that's all. Obviously, if you've got any better ideas…"

"Well, we _could _go and spend the day looking at gorillas… _or_… we could just stay in bed…"

I almost laugh with relief and at the utter predictability of his answer. "What, as opposed to the rest of this week?"

"Yeah, obviously." He laughs. "Gotta try new things!"

"And after all, we _are_ going out tomorrow night…"

"Exactly! And, to be honest, I have kind of been dreaming about getting a nice long lie-in all week… I've been sitting at my desk picturing myself not getting out of my pyjamas all weekend."

I raise my eyebrows suggestively. "Surely not _all_ weekend?"

Ron's ears turn a pleasing shade of pink. "Yeah, well, obviously not _all_ weekend…"

"I mean, you'll have to get dressed to go to my parents', won't you?" - I start laughing at catching him out so easily and shriek out loud as he rolls me off him and presses me into the carpet - "And I don't think the rest of the team would be too impressed if you turned up for the match on Sunday in your pyjamas…"

---

---------------

* * *

**Thanks for reading, and please review! PB x**


	7. Chapter 7: Sunday In The Pub With Anna

**Chapter Seven: Sunday In The Pub With Anna**

---

"'Scuse me, love, is anyone sitting there?"

"Yes, sorry, I'm just waiting for someone. Sorry."

The man raises his eyebrows disbelievingly and I try and look apologetic. Over an hour I've been sitting here now, squashed between the wall and a group of enormous Polish builders, fending off enquiries about the spare stool I am protecting like a mother wolf protects her cub. I am not immune to the pitying looks they give me; I know full well what they're thinking: "That girl's obviously been stood up, why doesn't she just admit it and go home so I can sit down." I drag out my second glass of wine for as long as I can, because if I get up to go the bar someone else will grab my seat, and wish I had thought to bring a book. There are other team members' families here too but I don't feel confident enough to go and introduce myself and force myself upon their company, so I just sit, and wait, and fume.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

"Yes, it is. Sorry."

What is he _doing? _Has he forgotten me? Gone home? I bet he's got talking to _her_ and hasn't given me a second's thought. Although the rest of the team aren't here yet either, so maybe that's not the reason. But he should have _said. _He should have told them his girlfriend was waiting for him; I'm sure they wouldn't have minded. Alright, maybe they'd have teased him a bit about it, but he shouldn't care about that, should he?

"Is anyone sitting there, love?"

I grit my teeth. "Yes, sorry, I'm just waiting for someone. Sorry."

I made damn certain that I was foremost in his mind before I sent him off to Quidditch this morning, knowing that Anna would be there. Maybe that sounds cold and calculating, but - well, all's fair in love and war, isn't it? I know professional sportsmen are supposed to abstain before matches so they can save all their energy for the match, but this is a Sunday League Quidditch team, for God's sake, not the Cup Final. And alright, maybe I did feel a bit guilty when they lost, especially by such a large margin, but I really don't think I can claim all the credit. I suspect the fact that two of the team were clearly badly hungover and one kept having to get off his broom to be sick, might have made more of a difference. Anna couldn't save them this time. _Ha. _

---

Finally, just when I am contemplating letting the twentieth person who has asked, pityingly, "Is anyone sitting there, love?" just _take_ the damn stool, the team all troop in, looking very subdued. Ron spots me straight away and detaches himself from the group, making a bee line for me across the room.

"Sorry! Have you been waiting long? Barry gave us a right bollocking, I thought we'd never get away! Do you want another drink? What's that, red wine? Here, look after my broom!"

He's off again before I even have a chance to get a word out, and I take my coat off the stool at last, holding my head up high. See, everyone, I haven't been stood up after all! Someone really _is_ sitting there. And there's a perfectly acceptable reason I've been sitting here on my own for over an hour. _See? _

---

Last night went surprisingly well, with my parents. Ron was on good form all night, laughing and joking with my mum, letting my dad show him his brand new top-of-the-range extremely expensive digital radio ("You hear the difference? You can really _feel_ the bass..."), complimenting Mum on her cooking even though he knows full well she doesn't cook, she just buys everything ready-prepared. Nobody mentioned the elephant in the room, of course. It was strange; everyone acting as though nothing had happened and we'd all seen each other just last week and not more than two years previously. But it gave me hope. He's trying. We're _all_ trying. Maybe since it went so well with my parents, he might start to think it wouldn't be so bad if he let me meet _his_.

---

"Budge up!"

I bite my lip. "There's not really any _room_, Ron. That's why I saved you the stool."

He ignores me and squeezes himself into the tight space beside me on the banquette. "You don't mind, do you? I hate those bloody stools, I always fall off them..."

I am now sandwiched uncomfortably tightly between Ron and the large man in paint-splattered overalls on the other side of me, who I really don't feel I know well enough to be practically sitting in his lap. "Sorry," I mumble, going red. He just nods and smiles and says, "Is okay," in heavily-accented English. Ron pulls off his jacket - nearly hitting me in the head with it in the process - and throws it over the stool, then finally settles back with a heavy sigh and leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

"Did you watch the match? Terrible, wasn't it?" He takes a long draught of his beer. "_God_, that's good! Still, I suppose I should be glad nobody here knows the words to 'Weasley Is Our King'… Hey look, there's Anna... _Anna! _Hey, _Anna!"_

My heart sinks. Anna is standing by the bar and looks over to see where the noise is coming from, She smiles and raises her hand slightly in greeting when she sees him.

_Don't ask her to come and sit down, don't ask her to come and sit down…_

"There's a stool here!" he yells across the room, and I almost cringe in my seat as people look round in annoyance at the noise. She shakes her head and cups a hand to her ear, and he points to the stool and beckons her over and she grins and nods. I want to kill him. How long have I been waiting, over an hour, and I barely get to even speak to him before she ruins everything. As if that wasn't bad enough, when Anna comes over a few minutes later with her drink, he immediately jumps up and offers her the banquette beside me;

"Here you go, there's a seat here. No, that's fine, I don't mind having the stool... Hang on, I'll move our coats for you... Come on, Hermione, move up!"

I glare at him, but he is too busy fussing over _her_ to notice. _Unbelievable!_

Anna turns to me and smiles. "Hi, Hermione, nice to see you again. How have you been?"

"Fine, thank you."

"Did you watch the match?"

"Of course."

"I bet you wish you'd stayed in bed, don't you?"

"Not at all," I say, stiffly, "I enjoyed it."

Ron laughs scornfully. "Well, I'm glad _someone_ enjoyed watching us get completely slaughtered!"

"No, that's not what I -"

"Cos playing it was like pulling teeth, wasn't it, Anna?"

She nods in agreement. "I thought Dad was going to sack the whole team for a minute there. I haven't seen him so angry since he caught my little brother in bed with his boyfriend."

Ron inhales half his beer up his nose. "Oh, that's brilliant!" he gasps, wiping beer off the front of his t-shirt, "That's cheered me up no end! Thanks, Anna!"

"No problem," she says, and they both laugh some more.

"How old's your little brother?" I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from the tedious subject of Quidditch.

"Seventeen. And not so little anymore, unfortunately. I can't beat him up as often as I used to."

"Hey!" Ron jokes, "Speaking as a little brother myself; leave the kid alone!"

"Is he here?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Adam wouldn't be seen dead somewhere like this. Anyway, he goes clubbing on Saturday nights, doesn't get in 'til about four; he'll probably still be in bed…"

"Blimey," says Ron, "That makes me feel really old..."

"You _are_ old."

"I'm twenty six!" he splutters.

She laughs and affects a horrified teenager's tone; "Oh my God, that's, like, practically _dead_, Granddad..."

"Oh, shut up!" he grins, pushing her in the arm. She pushes him back, and I am forcibly reminded of how we all used to act when we were fourteen, making those stupid little excuses to touch someone you had a crush on.

"Hey," he says, putting his hands up in mock-defence, "Don't mess with me, I carry a heavy bat, remember?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, _please_. I could totally have you, you're a wimp!"

"I am not! Hermione, back me up here!"

I am saved from having to reply by Anna's phone ringing. She answers it and leaves the room to take the call outside. Ron immediately dives into the space she has vacated beside me on the banquette and leans his head on my shoulder.

"Kill me, Hermione, I'm the worst Beater in the history of the world..."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"It _is_ true… I'm rubbish."

"You just had a bad day, that's all."

"Noooo," he moans, "I'm _terrible_... I'm supposed to _stop_ the other team scoring goals, not let them beat us a hundred-nil! I _suck_..."

"Well, does it really matter?" I snap back, "It's not as though the rest of the team are exactly Manchester United, is it?"

He sits up again and frowns. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing's _up_ with me. Why does there always have to be something _up_ with me?"

"Look, I'm sorry I was late, but I told you, it wasn't my fault, Barry kept us all behind for ages. It's not like I wanted to stand there being yelled at, you know. Or sit _here_ being yelled at, for that matter..."

"I am not yelling at you!"

He shrugs. "If you say so."

I knock back the rest of my drink in one, and slam my empty glass down on the table. Ron pulls a face.

_"What?" _I snap.

He shrugs again and looks uncomfortable, and tense silence descends. Immediately I regret being so snappish, especially as any minute now my competition is going to return to our little table, and I don't want him comparing me unfavourably to her. I finally got him on his own for two minutes and what did I do? Start an argument. Brilliant, Hermione, just brilliant.

"Can you believe this weather?" he says, with a slight air of desperation, and I soften, grateful to him for at least trying to make the effort. He's obviously been sitting there for the last few minutes trying to think of a non-contentious subject for conversation that won't result in me snapping his head off.

"I know, it's usually really nice around -" I had been about to say "our anniversary" but stop myself just in time - "this time of the year."

"Yeah," he says, "It is," and then stops, obviously unable to think of anything else to say. Instead he dives for his pint of beer and drinks about half of it down in one go. Glancing up, I see Anna coming back into the room, stopping to talk to her Dad by the bar, and with a mounting sense of urgency, grab him and pull his head down onto mine, kissing him full on the lips and whispering against his mouth, "I love you, I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you later..."

I am _shameless. _

"Put her _down_, Weasley…"

Ron pulls away and reaches for his glass, looking a little sheepish, but mostly rather pleased with himself. "Sorry."

Anna just looks amused. "I'm going to the bar, do you want another drink?"

Ron drains his glass. "Yeah, thanks."

"Hermione? Same again?"

"Oh. No, I shouldn't really -"

"Oh go on, one little glass can't hurt you. Red wine, was it?"

"Well -" I give in. "Yes. Thank you," I add politely, although saying those words to her is like chewing glass.

"No problem!" she says, cheerily, "Back in a mo'!"

"Hey!" Ron calls after her, "Get us some crisps, will you?"

She grins and nods and disappears off into the crowd.

Ron raises his eyebrows at me. "So… where were we?"

"I think we were talking about the weather…"

"No, _before_ that…"

I pretend to think about it. "Do you know, I can't remember? Were we talking about Quidditch?"

"_After _that…" he says, getting that dangerous glint in his eye.

"I _think_…" I whisper, "We were -"

"Hey, Ron!"

He glances up.

"Do you want salt 'n' vinegar or cheese 'n' onion?"

"Um… have they got prawn cocktail? Look, hang on, I'll come and give you a hand!"

And he jumps up and goes to help her at the bar, without even giving me a second glance. Of course, I think bitterly, food _is_ his second favourite subject. But really, coming second to a packet of prawn cocktail crisps is a new low. And _her _timing was absolutely impeccable, I noticed. There's no _way_ she didn't do that on purpose. God, she's good. I can see I'm going to have to up my game.

I watch them at the bar, talking animatedly, Ron leaning forward on his elbows as usual. They're standing very close and their shoulders are touching. I can only catch occasional glimpses of one or both of them through the crowds, and I crane my neck this way and that in a vain attempt to get a better view.

Oh, they're coming back.

I busy myself pretending to look for something in my bag until I hear them approach, both cackling at some no doubt idiotic joke, and force a smile onto my face. Ron stands back politely and gestures to the comfy seat beside me, but Anna shakes her head.

"No, you're alright, I'll have the stool, I don't mind."

He hesitates. "Are you sure? Those things are really hard, you know."

She laughs. "Yeah, well, better that than you have you two leaning over me for a snog every five minutes!"

He laughs too, and flushes slightly. "Well… okay. As long as you're sure."

"Oh, for God's sake. Just sit down quick before I change my mind."

---

He settles down next to me again and she makes herself comfortable on the stool. I can't help glancing at her suspiciously. What is she _up _to? Of course, now he's sitting right between the two us. Maybe she just likes the challenge. Well, if that's what she wants, that's what she'll get. I've always been the most competitive person I know. I may not look like much of a threat, but I've got history on my side. I've known him for fifteen years, how long has she known him, about five minutes? She doesn't know what she's getting herself into. I _know_ him. I know exactly how his mind works, and exactly how to get his attention. And I am not going to let them take over the conversation like they did before, I am going to make sure as hell they both know I'm here.

---

"So, Anna... you know a lot about the Muggle world, are you Muggle-born?"

She shakes her head. "No, but Mum is, and we went to a normal school, so -"

"A _normal_ school?"

_What does she think Hogwarts is, a school for freaks? _

"Yeah, you know, a Muggle secondary school. Mum and Dad wanted us to learn Maths and History and stuff. Don't suppose it'll ever be of any use to me, mind."

"Why," I ask eagerly, certain that this is going to provide me with some ammunition, "What do you do?"

"Well, at the moment I work in a bar part-time -"

Oh _perfect_, I think to myself, she's a _barmaid! _And a part-time barmaid at that. I should have guessed.

"But I also volunteer at a drop-in centre for the homeless two days a week, and that's what I want to do, really. Work with the homeless. I just need to get a bit of experience under my belt before I can apply for full-time jobs, you know?"

She beams at me, a light of enthusiasm shining in her eyes, and my heart sinks. I really want to hate her, but she keeps wrong-footing me at every turn.

"Oh. Right. That must be very… fulfilling."

"It is. I love it!"

She starts telling me all about it, and I immediately tune her out. Ron is stuffing crisps into his mouth with all the finesse of a fox ransacking a dustbin. She probably wouldn't mind that, though. She'd probably think it was funny.

"... some of them have got mental health problems, of course..."

"Yes, I suppose it must be difficult for you."

"Yeah, sometimes, but like I always say, once you've worked in a pub you can handle anything." She laughs. "Actually, I get more trouble from drunken idiots in the bar job than the shelter. City boys with too much money who think 'cos they're earning more than everyone else in the bar put together that gives them the right to behave like arseholes. The tips are good, but sometimes I think, if one more idiot asks me if 'those legs go all the way to the top', I'm gonna come back here with a shotgun and do a _Thelma And Louise _on his arse. If I could go full-time at the shelter I'd jump at the chance. I mean, working in a bar can be a laugh, and the money's not bad considering, but the shiftwork's a killer for the social life. Everyone else is out having a good time and I'm stuck behind a bar 'til midnight fending off drunk blokes in suits."

"Sounds awful."

"Oh, it's not so bad really. I do get the odd night off. Me and Ron went clubbing a few weeks ago and -"

I laugh incredulously. "Excuse me, _what?_" I turn to Ron. "You hate clubbing!"

"I don't _hate_ it," he retorts, looking disgruntled.

I can't believe it. "We went clubbing once when we first moved to London," I tell Anna, "And we can't have been there more than half an hour before he started complaining that it was too loud and there were too many people and the music sounded like someone drilling a hole in a wall. _And_ he asked the barman if he could get a cup of tea!"

Anna falls about laughing. "You asked for a cup of _tea_ in a _night_club?!"

Ron looks more disgruntled than ever. "_No_," he says, irritably, "I just said I'd rather be at home with a cup of tea, that's all, I didn't actually ask for -" He folds his arms across his chest defensively. "Anyway, you can talk, Hermione, you don't like nightclubs either!"

"No, that's true, I don't, but at least I didn't ask for a cup of tea!"

Anna and I both laugh, and Ron sighs in a weary, I'm-above-this-rubbish kind of way. "I didn't ask for a cup of - oh, for Christ's sake!"

"You told me you enjoyed it!" Anna says, in a mock-accusing tone.

"I did!"

That wipes the smile off my face. "When was this?"

"A couple of weeks ago," Ron mutters, with a shrug.

"It was your birthday," Anna adds, helpfully.

A jolt goes through me. He spent his birthday with her. He spent his birthday with _her, _in a _nightclub,_ and he _enjoyed_ it. They probably _danced_ together. He told me he went for dinner at his mother's! Why did he lie about it?

"You said you spent your birthday at your mum's," I say, trying to keep the accusing tone from my voice.

Ron takes what I consider to be an unnecessarily long drink of beer before replying, obviously to give himself time to think. He can be so transparent sometimes.

"Yeah, that's right."

"Well, wh-"

"My birthday was on a Wednesday," he says carefully, "We went out clubbing on the Saturday."

I pounce on that straight away. "What, with Quidditch the next morning?"

He gives me a blank stare. "Yeah, well, like you said, we're not exactly Manchester United... 'scuse me."

He gets up quickly and squeezes around the table and disappears off in the direction of the toilets, no doubt hoping that when he returns I'll have forgotten all about it. Anna gives me a sheepish sort of smile. She obviously realises she's landed him in it. _Good_.

"So, Hermione, what it is you do again?"

I sigh inwardly. I start telling her about my job, with a complete lack of enthusiasm, and she nods politely every few seconds and pretends she's actually interested. I am all too aware of how dull my job sounds in comparison to hers. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was the smartest witch in school. I was going to really _achieve_ something. My parents were going to be so proud. Our daughter, the high flyer. "Oh yes, your daughter, what it is she does again?" "She sits in a little glass office all day doing a job so pointless and boring neither of us can quite remember exactly what her job title is, and the only person she talks to is the cleaner. But it pays well and she does have a nice flat." "No boyfriend, then?" "No, not any more. We thought we might be grandparents by now, but you can't have everything. And it is a _very_ nice flat." "Shame." "I know..."

Lost in thought, I barely notice Ron returning and eventually when I look up they are deep in conversation again.

"…when you grow up in a rough area like this, it's a good idea not to stand out from the crowd too much," Anna is saying. "It's probably easier to be a witch if you live in the country."

"I dunno about that," says Ron, thoughtfully, "You stand out more if you live in the country. We used to go into the village and people would point at us."

"Yeah," says Anna, starting to laugh, "But you were a family of nine with bright red hair, _I'd_ probably point at you!"

Ron grins. "Ha ha. No, I just mean, if you live in London there are so many weirdoes around that nobody notices another one. I remember when we first moved here, we took my parents out for dinner at this really posh restaurant, and of course, 'cos I'd told them it was a fancy sort of place, they'd dressed up for the occasion. Full length wizard robes, mum wearing her spangly 'special occasion' witch hat, everything..."

He grins at Anna's helpless laughter. "You can laugh, the people in the restaurant thought they were going to a fancy dress party! Do you remember, Hermione?"

I nod. I do indeed remember. I remember that it really wasn't that fancy a restaurant, just an ordinary High Street bistro, the kind my parents and I used to go all the time. And I remember that Ron was the only one embarrassed by the situation and that, thank God, I don't think they realised how ashamed he was of them. At least, I hope they didn't.

---

No, ashamed isn't the right word. He was very proud of them and all the sacrifices they'd made for their family, but I think he just felt massively out of his depth in London, especially in comparison to Harry and I, who must have seemed so at home in the Muggle world. He always felt - still does, I suspect, although he never actually told me so - that his Muggle clothes were not quite right and that everyone would look at him and just _know_, and that every time he opened his mouth he was somehow giving himself away. I'm sure he thought that having his parents there dressed as they were was just drawing even more attention to us. He relaxed eventually, mind, once the joys of the food arriving distracted him.

---

I also remember that when the bill came, he practically snapped the waiter's hand off to get to it first and absolutely refused to let anyone else so much as pay for the tip. He's always got a tremendous amount of pleasure from buying things for other people. I think he'd been waiting his whole life for that moment. To be able to say, "No, no, put your money away, I'll get this. No, I insist, it's on me."

---

He took me to Madame Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade once. He said he'd always wanted to take me there, the whole time we were at school, but for one reason and another, he never got the chance. He turned up at my parents house the day after he got his first wage packet, and took my hand and made me close my eyes, and when I opened them again we were standing outside Madame Puddifoot's. It was strange to be back there after so long, and so close to the school. We didn't go and look at it, though. It was October and very windy and wet.

---

After lunch we had a look around the shops then went for a drink in the Three Broomsticks, and later that day we made the momentous decision to move in together. It was getting late and Ron joked hopefully that maybe we should get a room for the night at the pub. I said I'd told my dad I'd be home by midnight, and I could hardly send him an owl pretending we'd missed the last bus when he knew full well I could just Apparate home in three seconds flat. It just started from there really. Ron said rather irritably that if we had a place of our own we wouldn't need to worry about curfews and owls and _actually_, that's not a bad idea... We started looking through the Daily Prophet Classifieds the very next day. With the advantage of course, that we didn't have to worry about the commute to work like most Londoners, we could live anywhere we liked, as long as we could afford it.

---

We must have seen twenty flats before we found that ill-fated one above the off-licence. For some reason a lot of witches and wizards seem to live in attic flats - I suppose it's easier for owls to come and go when you're on the fifth floor rather than in the basement - and Ron kept nearly decapitating himself on a succession of low beams. And when they weren't actively dangerous, they were downright disgusting; the kind of place where you found yourself seriously wondering if the reason it was up for rent was because the previous occupant had died in it. The Archway flat really was the best of a bad lot. Well, that, and we were increasingly desperate to move out of the parental home because we'd just started sleeping together only a few weeks before, and the opportunities for privacy were frustratingly few and far between.

---

We'd only been able to finally be together in the first place because my parents had gone to a wedding in Scotland for the weekend and I'd seized the opportunity to offer myself and Ron's services as house sitters. My parents aren't idiots; I'm sure they knew exactly what would be going on in their home in their absence, but if they did, they never let on. Having the place to ourselves for the whole weekend did kind of take the pressure off a little bit too. We didn't have to rush things, worrying about someone walking in at any minute.

---

I'm pretty sure, actually, that Ron didn't tell his parents where he was going that weekend. House-sitting with Hermione. It sounds like a euphemism for something much filthier, doesn't it? Along similar lines to "exploring the Peak District". I'm absolutely sure that if he _did_ tell them he was staying at my house, he would have conveniently neglected to mention that my parents happened to be away in Scotland that weekend. Mind you, that was probably a good decision if the look of disapproval on his mum's face when we told her we were planning to move in together was anything to go by. It was as though she was simultaneously disappointed in me for not waiting until marriage like the nice girl she had previously imagined I was, and also resentment for taking the last of her sons away from her. She still had Ginny, but not for much longer.

---

"Did you see that one that went right through his legs?"

"I know, talk about embarrassing! If _I'd_ have been playing in goal, I'd _definitely _have saved it!"

"Yeah, right, you tell yourself that!"

"Shut up, I would!"

_Oh, for God's sake, they're talking about Quidditch again. Well, if you can't beat 'em..._

"So, Anna... have you been playing long?"

"Well, I've been playing since I was a kid, but I've only been on the team about five months. I joined just before Ron did, actually."

"Oh! I just assumed, because your dad's the manager..."

"That's exactly why I didn't want to join before! I get enough of him bossing me around at home, if you know what I mean. No, it was just because they had a big match coming up and their idiot Seeker went and fell off his broom and broke his leg. Dad asked me to help him out and, well, I realised I really enjoyed it. It was only supposed to be temporary, but then Ron joined, and of course, when there's someone you really get on with, that makes all the difference, doesn't it?"

"Mm," I say. "If you don't mind me saying, you seem rather tall for a Seeker."

She laughs. "Tell me about it! Still, I might be a big girl, but I'm nimble!"

_I bet you are._

"How tall _are_ you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm five foot ten in flats," she says, grinning, "So I can only go out with blokes who are over six foot, otherwise they get a complex. You know what men are like."

---

I nod in a worldly fashion, although if the Jeff episode taught me anything it was that I may know a lot of things, but I do _not _know what men are like. I only know what _Ron_ is like. She's nineteen years old and she already has so much more experience of life than I do. When _I_ was nineteen - well, I'd fought Voldemort and lived through a war, but I still hadn't let a man seen me naked. She's so confident about all these things; confident in her own attractiveness, confident in her body, utterly herself. It's that big city confidence you sometimes see in London girls, that comes from a feeling that this is her city, _all_ of it, she owns the town.

---

Ron doesn't even act like he owns Ottery St. Catchpole. Actually, he doesn't even act like he owns the square foot of ground he's standing on most of the time. If you challenged him on it he'd probably apologise for standing there and offer to move. I feel a sudden stab of resentment towards her. She doesn't know him like I know him. She just sees him when he's "on", putting on a display of confidence for the outside world, laughing and joking, and pushing those insecurities to the back of his mind. _Pretending_ to be confident is half the trick.

"Yes," I murmur, "I suppose it must be a problem for you."

"Nah, not really. There are loads of nice tall boys out there. Aren't there, Ron?"

Ron, who has patently not been listening to the conversation, glances up, his glass frozen in mid air halfway to his mouth: "Eh?"

Anna laughs. "Me and Hermione were just discussing the perils of going out with someone who's a lot taller or shorter than you are, weren't we, Hermione?"

She shoots me a mischievous, conspiratorial look, which I don't return. I resent being included in this joke, and I absolutely refuse to take her side against him.

Ron merely grins. "Well, it's only really a problem when you're standing _up_, if you know what I mean..."

They both hoot with raucous laughter. I force a light laugh but I can feel my face burning up. How _dare _he say that? I don't want him talking about personal things in front of her. If that's the kind of level their conversations operate at when I'm here, what on earth do they talk about when I'm _not_ here? Once again, I feel as though I am the butt of the joke, the gatecrasher at this party.

"I went out with this bloke who was five foot seven once," she continues, stopping laughing with a massive effort. "Never let me wear heels when we went out on dates..."

"You don't really strike me as a heels kind of girl, to be honest," interrupts Ron, voicing what I myself am thinking.

She laughs. "That's because you've only ever seen me in my Quidditch gear and trainers. I can scrub up alright when I want to, you know!"

Ron looks mortified. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I didn't mean -"

"I know, I'm joking!"

Ron frowns and continues to watch her with a slightly puzzled expression on his face, as though he is wondering for the first time what a nicely scrubbed-up Anna would look like. She has planted a seed of curiosity in his head that I don't want there.

"Anyway, I stood it for a couple of months, then I said to him, "Listen, mate, I know Nicole Kidman wore flats for Tom Cruise, but you're no Tom Cruise, do you know what I mean?"

We all laugh at that, even Ron, who can have no idea who Tom Cruise is, and even me, despite myself. I want to hate her, I really do, but somehow I just can't manage it. If she was one of those girly girls, like Lavender, it would be easier.

"He's an actor," I whisper in his ear.

"I know who he is," he mutters, irritably.

"I've got big feet for a girl, too," she goes on, "Which is another reason I don't wear heels very often. I'm a size eight," she adds, seeing Ron open his mouth to ask the obvious question. "I know, I know, I'm some kind of massive-footed freak, aren't I?" She bows her head and pretends to sob into her hands.

"That's nothing," says Ron eagerly, lifting his foot and whacking it down on the table - I grab my glass out of the way just time - "Size twelve!" he says, proudly, as though it's some sort of great achievement on his part and not simply a matter of genetics.

Anna shakes her head. "Wow, you must _really_ have trouble getting heels to fit!"

Ron bursts out laughing. "Shut up!"

"Actually," she teases, "There are specialist shops for that kind of thing. In Soho. I could take you if you want; get you kitted out. Maybe a nice lace basque and some suspenders...?"

"Fuck off!" retorts Ron, going positively red in the face.

"Aw, c'mon," she says, laughing now, "Don't tell me you've never tried on women's clothing before?"

"No!"

"Never stood in front in front of the mirror aged fourteen in your mum's bra and knickers?"

Ron just splutters incoherently.

"No? Must have just been Adam then…"

They both fall about laughing, and I desperately rack my brains for something witty to say, some contribution I can make to this conversation that would remind them I'm actually here, but the wine has made my brain sluggish and I can't think of a single thing to say. I start to panic. I can't get into this conversation, I can't make my presence felt, I might as well not be here at all. I might as well be invisible as far as they're concerned. He doesn't need me here. He doesn't want me here. What was it he said the other night? Oh, yes: "I just want to be with _you_." Well, if he just wants to be with _me_, maybe he should stop flirting with _bitchface_ over there.

I watch the lovely Anna taking a sip of her beer. Of course, she _would_ drink beer. No girly glass of wine for _her_. Maybe _I_ should start drinking beer. Or vodka. Or a large brandy.

"So you haven't ever worn your girlfriend's knickers to work for a bet?"

Ron looks positively affronted. "No!"

"I tried to get a bloke to wear some of my knickers to work once," she says, with a reminiscent gleam in her eye, "But he said they were a bit small for him." She looks Ron swiftly up and down in pretend appraisal. "You'd be alright, though, you're pretty skinny, you could probably get in Hermione's knickers…"

"Yeah," says Ron, grinning wickedly, "I probably could. In _fact_… I got in her knickers this morning, didn't I, Hermione?"

---

Anna chokes on her beer and they both laugh uproariously. Ron catches my furious look, gives me a sheepish sort of grin, and mouths "Sorry" at me, although he clearly isn't. I am unpleasantly reminded of Ron's complete inability _not_ to say something funny the second it has entered his head, no matter how inappropriate. He always thinks just saying sorry afterwards will make it alright, or worse, tells you "It was just a joke!", as though it's _your _fault you were offended because you obviously don't have a sense of humour.

---

And yet, ironically, out of the two of us he's always been the one who takes things personally and sulks for hours if you accidentally embarrass him in public. Hypocrite. Obviously he cares more about getting a cheap laugh out of _her _than he does about _my_ feelings. Anything for a laugh, even if it means you humiliate your girlfriend in front of a complete stranger.

---

Why am I even here? I should have stayed at home. In fact, I'm tempted to get up and go home right now, see how he likes it. But then I'd have to leave them alone together, and I'm sure that's exactly what she wants. I'd be playing right into her hands. No, I will sit here in this horrible pub on every Sunday from here to Doomsday if I have to. I need a fucking drink.

I climb unsteadily to my feet and they both look at me. "My round, I think!"

---

As I'm waiting to get served I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. _God_. My hair looks dreadful. Well, two and a half hours standing at the side of a Quidditch pitch in the rain will do that. Anna's hair, of course, looks perfect. How come it still looks so glossy and immaculate after two hours on a broom? It isn't fair! And those jeans look as though she picked them up off the floor of her bedroom this morning, but she still looks fantastic in them. Hard not to, with legs like hers. Please God, let him never get to see her in heels. Or a skirt. Or _not_ wearing - Actually, let her just stick to the dirty jeans, that's safer. And let her break her leg so she can't play Quidditch. No, let _him_ break his leg so he can't play Quidditch; that would solve all my problems at once. Then he'd _have_ to stay with me because he'd be trapped in bed all day, and I could bring him soup and make him tea and plump his pillows and oh, God, I've turned into Kathy Bates in _Misery_...

"What can I get you, love?"

"What?"

The barman sighs and repeats it, slowly, as though he is talking to an idiot. "What... can... I... get... you... to drink?"

"Oh. Sorry. Two pints of beer and a glass of red wine, please."

"Large glass?"

"No, thank you, just a small one's f- "

The sound of Anna's loud and distinctive dirty laughter drifts across the room.

"Actually, sod it. I _will _have a large one! Actually, make it a gin and tonic! No, make it a _double!_"

-----

When I come back to the table with the drinks, Anna stands up to let me get past and Ron moves up to let me sit down, and hurrah, now I'm sitting right between the two of them. Ha! _Perfect_. I should have got up to the bar sooner. Two can play at musical chairs, missy!

"So, Anna, what sort of bloke do you like then? They have to be tall...?"

She drains the last of her beer and pulls the new one towards her. "Well... I like a man's man, if you know what I mean..." She laughs. "I bet _you _know what I mean, don't you, Hermione?"

"Ron's afraid of spiders!" I blurt out, "He won't go to sleep if there's one in the room; I have to capture it in a glass and flush it down the toilet!"

There is a small silence.

"I'm not _afraid_ of them," Ron protests, shooting me an annoyed look and appealing to Anna, "I just don't _like_ them, that's all."

Anna laughs. "Aw, bless!"

"I'm _not!_" he mutters, irritably.

"Oh, _please_," I retort, somehow unable to stop myself now, "You wouldn't even let me rent _Spider Man 2 _the other day because you thought there might be spiders in it!"

Ron glares at me. "Well, why would they call it that if there weren't spiders in it? It's _stupid_…"

"So you like the macho type, then?" I persist, ignoring him.

She laughs. "Well, so far, it's been the _wrong_ type, if you know what I mean. I dunno; I seem to be attracted to the bad boys. I like 'em a bit bashed up, if you know what I mean. Rough edges. I went out with a rugby player once -"

Good _God_, how many men has she _had?_

"He was _huge. _Had a broken nose and a face like a potato, but my God, he was the best kisser _ever_…"

I am instantly reminded of Cormac McLaggen, the boy I only asked out to make Ron jealous. He had that kind of build. Mind you, being kissed by him was like being mauled by a bear, so that's where the comparison ends.

"He had really nice arms, too," she says, wistfully, "I do like a bloke with nice big muscly arms, do you know what I mean?"

I hear myself give that awful sycophantic laugh again. "Haha! Yes, absolutely!"

Ron rubs his forearm self-consciously and doesn't say anything.

"Basically," she finishes, "I like a bloke to look like a bloke. You know, rugby players, Quidditch players -"

"I went out with a Quidditch player once," I say without thinking. Ron's head snaps up in surprise and annoyance, but I pretend not to notice.

"Really? But - I thought -" She glances at Ron, who just looks blank, then back to me again - "A _professional_ Quidditch player, you mean? Anyone I might have heard of?"

"Well… _yes_, actually... Do you know Viktor Krum?"

"_Viktor Krum?_" she almost shouts, "You went out with Viktor Krum? _The_ Viktor Krum?"

"Well, yes, but -"

Anna is just staring at me with her mouth open. "Gotta say, Hermione, you've just gone _waaay _up in my estimation…."

She sounds genuinely impressed, and I beam back at her, until I catch sight of the stony expression on Ron's face, and hot guilt courses through me.

Anna shakes her head in wonderment. "Oh, my God, _Viktor Krum!_ I wouldn't kick _him_ out of bed for eating crisps, if you know what I mean…"

I laugh nervously, and try not to notice Ron scowling at me across the table. Actually, once again, I don't know what she means, since I was fifteen when I went out with Viktor, and a young and inexperienced fifteen at that. I didn't really "go out" with him as such, either - not in the sense she probably imagines. He took me to a school dance, and afterwards he gave me a very nice, very chaste, very respectful kiss, and really, that was the sum total of our relationship. We saw each other around school for a few more months after that, and after he went back to Bulgaria there were a few letters, but by then the shine had come off for me. I was never starstruck by him in the same way I might have been if I knew or cared about Quidditch a bit more, and it didn't take me long to realise how little we had in common, and that - although I would never have admitted it to his face - Ron was right; Viktor was much too old for me.

"How long did you go out with him for?"

"Not long," I have to admit, "It was sort of on-off. And it was a long time ago. He - he wasn't really a proper boyfriend."

Beside me Ron gives an audible snort of derision.

"Yeah, but you still went _out_ with him," she says eagerly, "What was he _like?_" She leans in conspiratorially and lowers her voice; "Was he good in bed?"

Ron is now violently shredding a beermat.

I feel my face getting hot. "Oh, no - I didn't - we didn't - I mean, I was still at school!"

She leans back in her seat, looking almost disappointed. "Shame."

_"Tragic," _Ron mutters.

"So how long have you two been together, then?" she asks, taking another sip of her drink.

"Fifteen years!" I tell her eagerly. _Beat that, bitch._

"Well, we've _known_ each other for fifteen years," Ron corrects, "We've been _together_ -"

"Nine!" I finish, beaming.

"Minus two," mutters Ron.

---

I shoot him a sharp look. Is he going to say that _every_ time people ask how long we've been together? "Thirty seven years, but it's really only thirty-five, because she left me for two of them." The thought that he might go on punishing me for this for the rest of our lives gives me a jolt of anxiety. _He_ was the one who said he didn't want to talk about it, I remember, with a sudden stab of annoyance. Yes, that's right, he was the one who said we should just get on with things and stop bringing up everything that's happened. Does that only work one way? Am I not allowed to ever mention it again, but he can drop it into conversation whenever he feels like it? In front of some girl I barely know, too!

---

Maybe that's why he said it, the little voice at the back of my head pipes up. Maybe he wanted her to know he hasn't forgiven me yet, that he's still a free agent. That she's still in with a chance if this doesn't work out. That's why he doesn't want to tell his family about me. It's not as if Ginny won't have been straight round there slagging me off to her mum. They'll all know already. They must be expecting it. They're not the problem. And I've said I want to meet them, I've told him I want to sort things out, so obviously _I'm_ not the problem either. It's just him. He still doesn't trust me.

---

More than that, he doesn't want me to meet them yet, because he hasn't decided if he even wants me back. It'll be much easier for him to just walk away if there aren't a whole load of other people involved. He's using them as an excuse to keep me at arm's length. Because if that obstacle was removed, he'd have to decide on his own whether he wants to be with me, without using his family as an excuse. Oh, my God. That's it. He _hasn't_ decided. It's not just about whether he wants me back, it's about whether he wants _her_ instead.

---

Ron and Anna - _Ronandanna!_ - are laughing at something again but I lost the thread of the conversation some time ago. I feel hot and dizzy, and jump to my feet and push past them and through the crowd to the toilet, where I lock myself in the cubicle and sit down thankfully, closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the cool tiles. Things are spinning.

---

After a few seconds I tentatively open my eyes, and regret it immediately. The toilet is covered from floor to ceiling in violent-pink coloured tiles. It's a bit like being inside a blancmange, but not in a good way.

I should never have had that third glass of wine. Fourth glass of wine. Gin.

Gradually the sick feeling goes away, to be replaced by a throbbing headache that feels like someone is drilling through the wall from the Men's toilet next door.

---

I can still hear the sound of their laughter echoing inside my head. That's why he likes her so much, they share the same childish sense of humour. It's a bit obvious, though, laughing at a man's jokes like that. Flattering his ego. I'd have thought she'd be above that kind of cheap move. It's the sort of thing Lavender would have done. No woman with any sense of self-worth would demean herself like that, just to get a man's attention. It's all a bit desperate, actually. "Oh, Ron, you're so funny!" "Oh, Ron, you should see me in my high heels!" "Oh, Ron, I just _love_ Quidditch players!" "Oh, Ron, I do voluntary work with the homeless!" _Please_. It's pathetic.

---

Well, I see right through her. Pretending to act all nice to me, like I'm her new best friend, when we both know what she's really up to. And he's no better, fawning all over her, laughing at her disgusting stories, egging her on. Making me look stupid in front of her. _"I got in Hermione's knickers this morning, actually!" _I can't believe he said that. I'm just a joke to him, that's all I am. Something to laugh about with his Quidditch mates. He didn't say _I_ scrub up nicely, I noticed. Probably too busy staring at her Peak District. I _knew_ I should have bought the matching bra to go with the knickers. Not that I've got anything to fill it with. Not like _her_. Bitch. Bastard.

---

It's hot in here. I'm dripping with sweat. Disgusting. Should take off my cardigan. Why on earth did I wear a cardigan? I look like a librarian. No wonder he – hang on, where's the sleeve gone? Oh, hell... what have I – there it is. Stupid!

---

I'm hungry. What time is it? Half five, oh _Gooooodddd..._. I feel like I've been here forever. And it's so _hot_... why is it so hot in here? They must have the radiators on or something. It's April, for God's sake. It must be a hundred degrees in here.

---

My throat's dry. I need a drink. Maybe I should have a mineral water. Or an orange juice. Mind you, that doesn't mix well with red wine, I'll make myself sick. But at least then he'd have to take me home. Take me home, put me to bed, mmm. Except it doesn't feel like home anymore. Not without him. I can't do this again. I can't be on my own, I'm no good on my own. I thought I could cope but... He was supposed to be the one who couldn't cope on his own and it was me... it was me who... Oh, yes, he's been fine, hasn't he? Going out clubbing and spending all his evenings in the pub with his stupid mates. Building his sodding treehouse and catching his own fish and... and... oh, _shut_ up, Hermione, you're talking nonsense. Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

---

I want to lie down. I want a glass of water. I want an aspirin. I want to go home. I don't know what I want. I want Ron. I want him to come and get me and take me home and hold me until I fall asleep, and when I wake up again I want it to be two years ago and for this whole awful nightmare never to have happened. And there's no such person as Anna, and he doesn't hate me. I _really_ want some peanuts.

---

When I come back, having splashed cold water over my face and taken off the hated cardigan which I will never wear again, a brand new drink is waiting on the table for me and my heart sinks. "Thought you might want a top-up," says Ron, as I stumble past him into my seat.

"Lemonade?" I ask, hopefully.

"Nah, he says, "Gin and tonic. Happy hour's just started, so I got you a double."

_Happy hour! _I want to cry. Please don't tell me I'm going to have to sit here all night. I need to go home. I need to lie down. I need an aspirin. I can't keep drinking like this, I'll die.

"So anyway..."

Ron and Anna resume their conversation as though I'm not even here, and I attempt to stay awake and upright. I feel so tired all of a sudden. I throw back my drink, managing to nearly miss my mouth and spill quite a lot of it down my front, but no-one seems to notice or care.

_Ron, I want to go home. Please, just take me home. Can't you see what's she's doing? Can't you see I need you to just take me home? _

Anna gives a low moan. "I still can't believe we got stuffed a hundred-nil!"

"I know," Ron agrees, looking equally miserable, "It's really embarrassing."

She puts her glass down. "I can't finish this. I'm too depressed. You know how sometimes you just can't get drunk no matter how hard you try?"

Ron gives a short knowing laugh, then glances furtively at me to see if I've noticed. Has he told her? About me leaving and him practically drinking himself to death for three months? About everything that's happened? About our whole sorry history? About _me? _I can just picture them sitting at this same small table and him telling her how I ruined his life, and her shaking her head and saying, "She sounds like a _bitch_…"

"Yeah… yeah, I know what you mean. Maybe we just need something stronger. Tell you what, I'll buy you a Firewhiskey."

She shakes her head. "No, thanks. I think I'm just gonna go home."

I have to physically restrain myself from handing Anna her coat.

Ron gives a big sigh. "Alright. We should probably get going as well. Hermione?"

This time I do reach for my coat, and hand him his too: "Absolutely."

-----

Outside it is getting dark already and the low grey clouds make the sky feel oppressive over our heads. The grass is wet and spongy under my feet. As we walk across the park looking for a dark place to DisApparate home, I feel a mounting sense of fear. Ron is striding ahead of me and I have to run a little to keep up.

"Ron…" I call, a little breathlessly, "Stop a minute."

He pulls up short and shoves his hands in his pockets wearily. "What?"

"I was thinking… since it went so well with _my_ parents last night, maybe we could tackle yours next?"

My suggestion is greeted with deafening silence.

"What do you think?"

He delays having to answer by pulling a random piece of paper out of his pocket and pretending to read it

"Ron?"

"Maybe," he says, nodding vigorously, the way he does when he has absolutely no intention of doing what I ask.

We look at each other.

"I just -"

"Alright," he says, heavily, seeming to come to some sort of forced decision, "What about next weekend?"

My heart sinks. "_Next_ weekend?"

He looks at me, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. If you want."

I have to struggle to hide my disappointment.

"Okay."

I wait to see if he is going to say anything about next Saturday being our anniversary but he just says, coolly, "Fine," and DisApparates on the spot. For several minutes I can't move at all, I just stand there staring numbly at the space where he was standing.

---

* * *

Back home I wash a couple of aspirin down with about a litre of water and some toast and black coffee, curl up in an armchair and try to move my head as little as possible. Ron falls into a fug of despondency, wandering aimlessly about the flat muttering, "A hundred-nil!" under his breath, and taking about an hour to make himself a sandwich by using every single ingredient in the fridge.

---

It is a short sharp reminder in what it is to be a Quidditch widow. How an entire weekend can be made or ruined depending on badly the Cannons have played that day. His team wins; he's on top of the world - generous, affectionate, spontaneous, cracking jokes and smiling, and your little world is good. His team loses; he's sullen, withdrawn, snappish, doesn't want to go out, can barely get off the sofa in fact, and nothing, but _nothing_ can cheer him up. I still remember the shock I felt the first time I tried to cheer him up the time-honoured way of wives and girlfriends everywhere, and he said rather grumpily that he wasn't in the mood. I had assumed that men were _always_ in the mood, but it turns out that this is a myth.

---

It is somewhat ridiculous. I am trying to sulk with him, but he's too depressed about the Quidditch to even notice. What's the point in deliberately not talking to someone when they don't _realise_ you're not talking to them? We end up hardly talking to each other for the rest of the evening, both caught up in our own thoughts. Eventually, probably to fill the silence, Ron turns on the television (or rather, gets me to do it, since he can't work out how to operate the remote), and sits there vacantly in front of some programme about badgers, and I go and have a long soak in a hot bath. Married life. We look like my parents.

---

I lean my head back against the inflatable bath pillow and close my eyes thankfully, grateful for the peace and quiet. My mind is still whirring with the events of the day. Clearly, I shouldn't be allowed to drink.

---

Why on earth did I bring up Viktor? And the spiders? I never bring up Viktor in company, _ever_, mainly because I know from twelve years of bitter experience that there's no higher guarantee of a ruined evening than mention of the K word. I can't really explain why I brought it up now.

---

I don't even particularly _like _men who are built like rugby players, and their "nice big muscly arms". He must know that, he must have realised I was just agreeing with her to - to be polite. He must know his long skinny arms have always been one of the things I love most about him. He must _know. _

_---_

And why the _hell_ did I ask him about meeting his family? He asked me not to bring it up again, and I went ahead and did it anyway. I wonder if he feels forced into it, and wish I hadn't asked the question. I already feel a nervous sort of sickness in the pit of my stomach at the thought of facing his family again, and now our anniversary is ruined too, and I only have myself to blame. I should at least have waited another week. I was going to leave it until after next weekend, especially after what happened on Friday evening. That was the plan, anyway. God, I'm an idiot. I should have just let it lie. I should have just been grateful that I have him at all, and not spent so much time dwelling on other things, other people. I only had to stick it out for another six days, and I couldn't even manage that. I should have waited. Six days! It's _nothing! _

_---_

Is it some strange masochism that makes me try to destroy what we have only just rebuilt? I feel as though I am losing my mind.

---

I need to do something about this. I can't go through this every Sunday. I'll go mad. But then, if I don't go, I'm leaving them alone together, and that's worse. I'd be sitting at home wondering about them. Imagining the worst.

---

I always thought Ron's jealous streak might be a potential problem, I never considered for one minute that mine could be that destructive. It's Lavender all over again. I turn into a spoilt little girl not wanting to share my toys. "It was supposed to be _me!_" "You're _mine!_"

---

Lavender. I haven't thought about her in a long, long time. Lavender was much easier to hate. She was one of those girly girls who only care about boys and fashion and make-up and whose sole ambition in life is to meet a man and get married. We didn't exactly get on _before_ she started snogging Ron all over the school, but _afterwards_ - well, there were more times than I cared to count where I had to restrain myself from transfiguring that cute little button nose into something that could cause a hazard to shipping.

---

I may have to fight for him. With Lavender I just thought, fine, if that's the kind of girl he wants, then she's welcome to him. At least until the constant strain of having to share a dorm room with the boy I loved's stupid girlfriend released my inner bitch. I tried all the tricks in the book to get him back. Make him jealous. Ignore him. Flirt with someone else. Treat him like dirt. I hated myself for sinking down to her level, but there was no point in pretending I didn't care. I cared too much, that was my trouble. Ron was the only one who didn't see it. But actually Lavender was never really a threat. She was just a small iceberg on the journey. Not that I saw it like that at the time, of course! But Anna could turn out to be a very big iceberg. And without pursuing this extremely poor metaphor too much further, I need to steer a course through the pack ice and get us into calmer, safer waters. Waters not populated by gorgeous nineteen year old girls.

---

Actually, it sounds absurd, but I learned a lot from Lavender. He used to make me laugh by telling me about all the things she said and did that annoyed the hell out of him, and from that I learned what _not_ to do.

---

_Things I learned from Lavender never to say:_

"Is that what you're wearing?" _("No, I thought I'd go in my pyjamas...")_

"What do you think of my shoes?"

"You're not going to eat _all _of that, are you?" _("Watch me.")_

"You haven't even _noticed_ my shoes, have you?"

"Haven't you got _anything_ smart to wear?"

"Xxxx noticed my shoes!" _("Good for Xxxx. Why don't you go out with him instead?")_

And my particular favourite, blurted out mid-snog: "No tongues! I've got a mouth ulcer!"

---

He hated it when she laughed really loudly at one of his jokes, when it was patently obvious she didn't have a clue why it was supposed to be funny. ("It's like faking an orgasm…"). He especially hated it when she followed it up with an admiring, "You're so _funny!_"

---

He hated it when she hollered across the crowded common room ("Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron!") to try and get his attention, and everyone sitting around him laughed and it made him go red and try to duck down behind the sofa, and then they all laughed even more at how embarrassed he was.

He hated it when she got all sulky if he didn't want to spend every waking minute of the day with her ("I _am_ supposed to be your girlfriend!").

---

He hated it when she talked to him in a stupid baby voice, under the delusion it was somehow "sexy". (Me, making a mental note for future reference: "Not sexy?" Him, through gritted teeth: "_No_. Just really, _really_ annoying...")

---

She used to call him silly baby names as well, and he _really_ hated that. As a consequence - and also because we're both far too prone to sarcasm to be able to pull off that kind of thing with a straight face - we don't have cutesy nicknames for each other. We never have. I am not his fluffy bunny and he is not my love muffin. We don't even use darling or sweetheart or honey or any of those other endearments, except occasionally in jest. Well, _he_ does sometimes, usually when he's trying to get me into bed ("You're looking particularly gorgeous today, darlin'…"), or just in a silly mood, or when he thinks I'm acting like his mum, and he wants to let me know that he's going to respond accordingly, with a mock-apologetic "Yes, dear." (That one used to rather annoy me, actually.) We don't even shorten each other's names. Well, there's not much you can do with _Hermione_, and there's nothing at all you can do with _Ron_.

---

Poor Lavender, she was onto a losing battle from the start, really. Every single irritating thing she said and did just made him realise how little she and I had in common. ("Basically, tits," said Ron, rather bluntly, I thought. Mind you, he was only seventeen at the time, and I've trained him to try and rein in some of those teenage impulses in the years since. I remember the time he told me I had "fantastic tits", and I had to explain that although it was always nice to receive a compliment, I'd prefer it if he rephrased it so I didn't feel as though I was going out with a fourteen year old. "Yes, dear", said Ron.)

---

If it wasn't for her he might never have got round to asking me out. From what he told me afterwards it took about a week of dating Lavender for him to realise that actually, he didn't love her, didn't even _like _her in fact, and actually, he really loved _me_, instead. So I suppose I should thank her really, but sod it, I'm not going to. Those first three months they were going out, when Ron and I weren't talking to each other, when I had to put up with him kissing her all over the school, when it should have been _me_ he had his arms around, those were the worst three months of my life. I cried every single day. Several times a day. And that was only because he _kissed _someone else.

---

Now I have to deal with the fact that he _slept_ with someone else. Only this time I'm not allowed to cry, or blame him, or get angry, and I can't even expect an apology, because we weren't together, and we weren't together because I left. But it's always there, in the back of my head, and sometimes I think about it, although I try not to. I can't change what happened, so what's the point? I'm not allowed to be jealous, because if I hadn't left, he wouldn't have done it. I just wish it wasn't Luna. If only it was someone else, someone I didn't know, someone I couldn't picture him with. I know what they look like standing next to each other, how high she comes up to his shoulder, how they would look if they were a couple.

---

All my concerns were about whether he would be able to forgive me; it didn't occur to me for even one minute that I might not be able to forgive him. And yet it's all I can think about. Ron and Luna. _Ronandluna_. I think about them together. I've been driving myself mad thinking about them together. I know it's utterly pointless and self destructive but I just can't help myself. I wish I could get that image out of my head. He said she made him laugh, and for some reason that hurts more than almost anything else.

---

Would it have been better if it had just been some random woman he met in a pub? I think I would still have driven myself mad thinking about her, wanting to know things. It's just what I do. I can't stand not knowing. What did she look like, where did they meet, what was her name? I'd want to know everything. Was it just a one-night stand? Was he drunk? Did they go back to her place? What did she do for a living? What colour hair did she have? Was it curly or straight? Was she taller than me, did she have bigger breasts, was she more attractive, more fun, better in bed? But I can't ask him any of it. Because I just _can't_, but also because I already know most of the answers. I know _her. _

_---_

If I'm strictly honest with myself, I always thought Luna was a bit of an idiot. I probably wasn't as nice to her at school as I could have been. She was a year younger than us, and in many ways the opposite of me. I always thought she was a bit, well, silly. You know how you are at that age, everything's black and white to you. Luna was alright, but she was very scatty and vague and dressed strangely, even for a witch. She had some very peculiar ideas. In Muggle terms, she was a bit of a hippy. Not Ron's type at all. If I'd ever imagined him with someone else, she'd have been just about the last person I'd have considered a threat. But I do remember that although he thought she was a bit mad, he wasn't impatient or sharp with her, as I suspect I was. He was probably one of the few people at school who was nice to her and didn't treat her like a freak. I can see why she might have had a bit of a crush on him. Well, who wouldn't?! So I can't blame her for seizing her chance ten years later. And she behaved impeccably over the whole thing, much more so than I did. Let him down gently. Tried to get us back together. I owe her a lot, really. What if she hadn't sent him away? What if she'd said yes? Would he now be happy with her instead of me, planning a future with her instead of me?

---

I wish I didn't keep thinking about them together. Torturing myself. Does he think about it too? I always thought we were good together but now he has someone else to compare me to. Maybe now he's been with another woman, the idea of only sleeping with one person for the rest of his life isn't quite so appealing any more. He knows he has options. He survived two years without me, he could do it again. He could get someone else. He could get an _Anna_. Someone different, someone fun, someone who doesn't have the decade of emotional baggage I come with. Someone who didn't break his heart and stamp on it, for no reason at all.

---

I _understand_ Luna. It doesn't make it any easier to accept, but I do at least understand. I suppose I should be flattered, in a way - he was trying to get over me, but of course, that didn't work. Well, of course! I sound so full of myself, but who wants their boyfriend to get over them that quickly? You _want_ to be unforgettable, you want them to never quite recover from the shock of losing you, you want to ruin other women for them - "She's nice enough, but she's no Hermione" - and them for other women too - "He says he loves me, but I know he's just thinking about _her_…" Luna was just a rebound shag. Luna was a sticking plaster on the wound.

---

Anna, however, is something else. Anna is my potential replacement. He wouldn't only be going out with her to try to get over me anymore, he'd be going out with her because she's fun and smart and cool and sexy and confident, and because of all the ways she's _not_ like me. She's not a replacement. She's an _upgrade._

_---_

What makes it worse is that she wouldn't even be the "forever" girlfriend, she'd just be someone he had a good time with for a few months. She'd be taking away my chance of a long-term future with him for the sake of a bit of fun. And this time, if he goes, he's not coming back, I'm certain of that. I'd just be the "high school girlfriend" that so many people have, the one they don't end up with, because who marries their first girlfriend, these days? It's not the 1950s. Nobody has to marry the first person they have sex with anymore. You're almost encouraged to put it about a bit, have some fun. After we'd been together five years we found that when we told people we were each other's first and only proper girlfriend/ boyfriend, they would react as though the very concept was freakish to them ("Poor you, you obviously have very boring lives and only ever do it in the missionary position and never on the Sabbath."). Particularly with women, they seemed to share my mum's view on the subject, namely; how are you going to know if the car's worth buying if you haven't test-driven a few different ones first? I don't know how I know. I just _do. _

_---_

Maybe I'm just happy with the first car I ever bought and it still works and okay, maybe the tyres are a bit threadbare and the CD player doesn't work anymore, and the funny bumper sticker stopped being funny years ago, but the seats are comfortable and I know how to park it, and I'd rather take it to the garage and try to get it fixed than buy a brand new model that might turn out to have a whole load of new things wrong with it. And that analogy stopped working a couple of sentences ago, but never mind.

---

Things used to be so straightforward. There was just me and there was just him, and that was all we needed. When did things get so complicated between us? So mixed up? It's always been a bit like that, of course - the silly teenage arguments and misunderstandings - but when it came down to it, it was the most simple thing in the world.

---

Other people will break us up, I'm sure of it. It should be just about us, and instead it's become about Ginny, and Harry, and my parents, and his parents, and Luna, and Anna, and Jeff. I feel as though every time we venture outside of our little two-person bubble, I lose him a little bit more.

That night, for the first time all week, we don't make love.

---

* * *

_**Author's Note: Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and remember that your New Year's Resolution is to Always Leave A Review... Happy New Year! PB x**_

* * *


	8. Chapter 8: Love In The Dark

_(For Sarah, who likes to Rock.)_

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Love In The Dark**

---

The most annoying thing is that's it's actually been fine for the last couple of days. We haven't argued, anyway. And I've managed to put the Anna problem to the back of my mind; almost managed to forget she existed, in fact. _Almost_. So you can imagine how delighted I was to receive a hastily scrawled note by owl at half past four informing me that:

"Just remembered I've got Quidditch practice tonight, sorry! R x"

Especially as there was the following p.s:

"Don't wait up!"

-----

_Don't wait up? _Of course, I was instantly suspicious. He told me that he only had Quidditch practice every _other _week. I'd definitely have remembered if it was _every_ Wednesday night. And why wait until the last possible minute to send an owl? He must have known that I wouldn't have time to reply before he left work. And that's another thing, he leaves work at five, last week he was home by half eight, what is he doing that I shouldn't wait up _for? _As if I couldn't guess. Sitting in the pub, obviously. Sitting in the pub with _her_. Why can't he skip it just this once? It's been ten days and already he'd rather go to the pub with his teammates than come home to me. If he'd given me any notice, I might have gone along. He didn't even ask if I wanted to come. He obviously just assumed I wouldn't want to, as though I'm some kind of silly little girl who wouldn't be interested in these things. Not like Anna. Anna who drinks beer and laughs at his stupid jokes. Maybe that's why he didn't tell me; maybe he didn't _want_ me going along. Spoiling his fun.

---

What's she got that I haven't, anyway? Apart from the obvious. Oh, yes, her talents are all rather obvious. But then, maybe that's why he likes her. She's uncomplicated. _Ha. _Well, that's _one_ way of putting it. You wouldn't think he'd be her type, though. _"I like a man's man, if you know what I mean." _Well, he's hardly that. But then, she's obviously not fussy. Honestly, if I have to listen to one more tedious, disgusting anecdote that starts _"I went out with this bloke once,"_ I'll scream.

---

At least no-one can accuse _him_ of having a _type_, I think bitterly. Really, you couldn't find four women with less in common than myself, Lavender, Luna and Anna. Two blondes, two brunettes. The alternative Spice Girls. Brainy, Girly, Hippy and _Slut_. And whatever that woman he got off with at work is like. _Stupid _springs to mind, since getting drunk enough to snog one of your employees at an office party two weeks into the job doesn't exactly suggest we're dealing with an intellect of Germaine Greer-like proportions. So absolutely perfect for him, in fact. If anything, of all Ron's women, _I'm_ the odd one out.

---

_Ron's women_. How did _that_ happen? I laugh out loud. How _did _that happen? He's not rich, well-dressed or sophisticated, or any of those things women supposedly consider important, he has absolutely no ambition, he plays Sunday League Quidditch for one of the worst teams I've ever had the misfortune to watch, he has a predilection for appalling puns, and he only owns two pairs of shoes. I mean, we're not exactly talking George Clooney here, are we?

---

I feel sickened with myself immediately. Yes, Hermione, and you're not exactly Julia Roberts (face like a frog notwithstanding) either, so shut up.

---

But if he hadn't gone out tonight, I wouldn't be thinking these things. I was fine until I read that note, I was absolutely fine, and then all my doubts and fears came crowding in on me once more. 

_---_

_Don't wait up_. He must have realised how that looked written down. He _must_. And if he didn't... well, then, he's an idiot. A big, stupid, not-so-wonderful-right-now-actually idiot. Why does he get everything all his own way anyway? He can do whatever he likes and I'm just supposed to put up with it, because, let's see, oh yes - "everything's my fault". Except it isn't, is it? It's _his _fault I'm getting so stressed out, him and his stupid little note. He should be here, with me. He said he wanted to try again, so that's what he should be doing, not off swanning around London with her instead. I'm trying, I really am, but I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. Why does he even need to go to Quidditch anyway? He's got _me _now. I'm supposed to be the one he wants. And I sound like Lavender. And I _really_ should - an old in-joke of mine and Ron's comes back to me and makes me half-laugh bitterly to myself - fuck the shut up.

---

I get to my feet and pace the room restlessly, pushing aside the curtain and peering down into the street, but of course, there is no-one there. This is ridiculous. It's a quarter to ten now and I've been stuck here on my own all evening with nothing to do except twiddle my thumbs, like one of Jane Austen's weedier heroines, while the "menfolk" are out actually _doing_ things. What I need to do is join an evening class or something. Learn a language, take up a new hobby. I did always want to try Life Drawing. _Ha! _That would show him. Actually, that would drive him mad with jealousy. "What's Life Drawing?" "It's me in a room with a naked man, Ron." "Right. Nope. You're not doing it."

---

I did an evening class once before, actually, and he didn't like that much either. I've always felt that I missed out on a vital part of my education by not going to university, and that there are huge gaps in my knowledge as a result, particularly on the arts side - I'm a facts and figures girl, straight down the line. What in modern parlance you might refer to as a "science geek". So I took an evening class in Art Appreciation. He was fine about it until he actually met them. One of the women on the course had an end-of-term party and of course the group of us ending up sitting around talking about art all evening and Ron responded in the way he always does when he feels out of his depth: he goes quiet. I didn't even notice he was missing for over an hour, I was so caught up in the conversation with my new friends, and when I found him he was sitting alone in the dark in the garden hugging a bottle of vodka. He hardly said a word all the way home, made tea and toast in silence, got undressed for bed, all in silence, until the inevitable blazing row I knew was coming all evening.

---

If I've learnt one thing in fifteen years, it's that a quiet Ron is never a good sign. That's why I don't understand why he doesn't want to talk about it. I don't believe for one second he isn't _thinking_ about it. Working out ways to punish me, it seems, by making me practically beg him to come back and then never actually spending any time with me. I have _said _I'm sorry a thousand times. So many times that he asked me to _stop_ saying it. I want to talk about it; he's the one who doesn't. He doesn't want to talk about _any_ of it; he just wants to pretend it never happened. If only it were that simple.

---

I knew it was going to be hard, of course I did, I knew it wasn't all going to be hearts and flowers and breakfast in bed every day, but I didn't expect to have to deal with all of _this_ as well. I just want to know where I stand, is that so wrong? I don't deserve to be strung along until he decides which of us he wants. Whatever I've done, I don't deserve that. I just want him to be straight with me.

---

I don't know, maybe he's right; maybe honesty isn't always the best policy. Maybe asking him about Anna would be the wrong thing to do. Bringing up seeing his family certainly was, after all. Neither of us have mentioned it since, so I don't even know if he's done anything about it, sent an owl, gone round to see them, anything. Maybe he's just hoping if he doesn't bring it up, I'll forget. 

---

As if I could. I've hardly thought about anything else since Sunday. I mean, I _do_ want to see them (sort of), but at the same time... what if it just makes things worse? And why _that_ day, of all days? Three days to go before our anniversary and he still hasn't said anything. I don't want to bring it up because I don't want to push him, but he must remember. He _must_. All I can think is that the only reason he hasn't mentioned it must be that he doesn't _want_ to celebrate it, he doesn't think it's _worth_ celebrating anymore. Because it's not nine years, it's only seven. Minus two, that's what he said.

---

I should stop thinking about the numbers, shouldn't I? What do they matter, dates and numbers? It's just always been something I do, that's all. I sometimes count when I am climbing stairs, or before saying something I know the other person will not necessarily want to hear. Count to ten and take a deep breath. When I was little, when I got upset or frightened, I used to count in my head until the danger had passed. When boys called me names on the way home from school, I used it to block out the sound of their voices. One, two, three, four, I can't hear you, five, six, seven, eight, I don't care, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, I'll be going to university and you won't because you're _stupid_, ha ha, and on and on, counting until it stopped. I still do it sometimes. I suppose it's just something you do automatically, without thinking.

---

I counted - _oh, God! _- I counted the first time we kissed. I don't know why, nervousness I suppose. Seventeen seconds. Seventeen wonderful, wonderful seconds. I've never told him that, of course. I don't think he'd understand, somehow. And I think that even after all this time, I would still be afraid of his reaction - he might laugh, or he might be horribly offended, and with the way things are, I don't want to risk doing anything that might drive him away.

---

Why did he even let me go? We shouldn't have been apart this long. All that time we wasted. He should have stopped me leaving, made me see sense. It wasn't all my fault. He should have come after me, he should have wanted me back so badly he would have done anything to get me back. And at least _I_ didn't sleep with someone else. _Three _times. Numbers don't let you leave. Numbers don't change. One and one is always two. Maybe that's why they're so comforting. Numbers are always the same. Numbers don't let you down. Numbers don't lie. Numbers don't get drunk and fuck other women in nasty little hotel rooms. _Stop it. _You can't keep thinking about this, Hermione. It's not good for you. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight -

-----

I hear his key turn noisily in the lock and jump up to greet him. He comes into the room backwards, his arms precariously loaded with his broomstick and a half-drunk bottle of something green and disgusting-looking, and the remains of a large bag of chips, nearly knocking over the lamp on top of the TV with the rucksack hanging off his shoulder, and wrestling with the door key, which has got caught in the lock. It is like a hurricane has blown the door off its hinges.

"Where have you been? It's nearly ten o'clock!"

He glances at his watch, nearly spilling the drink in his hand in the process, "Oh, yeah. Sorry. Didn't notice the time."

He dumps his broomstick and the rucksack on the floor in a heap and offers me the bag of chips. I shake my head.

He shovels some chips into his mouth. "Suit yourself. God, I'm bloody _starving! _That Barry's a real slavedriver, I tell you, I thought I'd never get away!"

He comes across and kisses me on the cheek and I get a faint whiff of vinegar.

"You've been at practice all this time?"

"Tell me about it!"

"So you didn't go to the pub?"

He shakes his head, his mouth too full of chips to speak.

"Did you win?" I ask, weakly, my mind full of images of he and Anna entwined at the side of the pitch in a glow of post-match euphoria.

He stares at me, then laughs. "What d'you mean, _did we win?_ It was _practice!_"

I feel instantly stupid. "Oh."

He shakes his head in amusement. "_Did we win_… what are you like?"

How can he be so cheerful when I'm churning up inside?

"What took you so long? You were home by half eight last week."

"Yeah, well, we hadn't just lost a hundred-nil last week, had we? Barry always keeps us there longer when we've lost."

The irony of this particular situation is not lost on me.

"I thought you said you only had practice every other week?" I ask, trying to keep my tone as light as possible.

"Yeah, well, we do usually, but Barry said we played like a bunch of drunken donkeys last match so we needed as much practice as we could get." He chuckles to himself. "Oh, hey, I nearly forgot... I, er, got you something..." He shoves the greasy bag of chips into my hands before I can protest.

"A bag of chips?" I ask, incredulously.

"It's what _in_ the bag of chips..."

I peer down into the bag, half-expecting to see a tiny little present all wrapped up in fancy paper and ribbon at the bottom of it, but there is nothing there.

"What am I looking at?"

He jabs a finger into the bag, then, when I continue to look blank: "The saveloy! I've been seeing it on chip shop menus for years and always wondered what it was so I got us a couple. I've already eaten mine."

"A _saveloy?_" I can barely keep the contempt from my voice. "You know, _some _men bring their girlfriends _flowers_..."

Ron just laughs. "At least I'm original!"

"Do you mind if I don't?"

"Aw, I bought it specially for you! I'll be offended if you don't eat it..."

I poke cautiously at the unappealing red-skinned sausage. "It's gone cold."

"Well, it probably wasn't any better hot, to be honest. Chuck it if you don't want it."

I don't need telling twice. I deposit the remains of the chips and saveloy in the kitchen bin and come back out to find him emptying the contents of his rucksack - sweaty Quidditch things, old chocolate bar wrappers, empty bottles, half-read newspapers - all over my nice clean armchair.

"So how was it?"

"How was what?"

Oh, for God's sake. _"Practice!" _

"Oh, it was alright. Knackered now, though." He throws himself into the other armchair and lets out a huge yawn to prove his point, then bends down and starts untying his shoelaces.

"I'd have come and watched if you'd given me a bit of notice."

"Nah, it's only practice, you'd be bored out of your mind."

"I might not. Maybe I could come next week."

"There's no point."

"You just don't want me to come."

He straightens up and stares at me. "Hermione, you _hate _Quidditch."

"I don't _hate_ it."

He gives a derisory laugh and I feel the anger rising inside me.

"I _don't! _What, you think because I'm a girl I can't possibly have any interest in Quidditch, is that what you think?"

"No," he says, patiently, "I think you can't possibly have any interest in Quidditch because you've told me about a million times over the past fifteen years that you haven't got any interest in Quidditch. It's not because you're a girl. Anna's a girl and she knows _loads _about Quidditch."

"Well, good for Anna," I mutter under my breath, but he doesn't hear me.

I follow him into the kitchen where he noisily fills the kettle and pulls a couple of cups from the cupboard, then grabs me around the waist without any warning and makes a clumsy attempt to kiss me. I prise his fingers off me angrily and push him away.

"For God's _sake_, Ron, at least wash your hands first, can't you? I don't want chip fat all over me!"

"Yes, dear." He flashes a grin at me and goes to wash his hands at the sink, then pulls me back against him once more, kissing my hair and neck.

"Oh my God, you smell _amazing_, what _is_ that?"

"My new shampoo. Moroccan rose petals."

"_Moroccan_ rose petals?" he laughs, "Do they smell different from English ones, then?"

I grit my teeth. "I don't _know_, Ron, that's what it says on the label."

"It's nice."

"It should be; it's twenty pounds a bottle."

"_Twenty quid! _Jesus! What, do they charge you for the airfare all the way to Morocco as well?"

The kettle clicks off and he lets go of me and busies himself making tea, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. "Twenty quid! For that you could buy a rose bush and make your own!"

"You could do with a shower yourself," I tell him, suddenly irritated, "You _stink_ of vinegar. _And_ you must be really sweaty if you've been out practicing all this time." I want to add pointedly, "_If _that's where you've been…", but manage to restrain myself.

"S'alright," he says, carefully depositing his teabag in the bin, "I had one at Barry's."

"You could have had one here."

"Yeah, but I always have one at Barry's. We have to have the post-match analysis so Barry can shout at us, and then he goes through our individual performances while we take turns having showers - the worst player has to go last and the water always goes cold - and then we all go the pub. It was quite funny actually, Anna was showing me these old photographs from when the team first started -"

I stiffen. "Anna lives there too?"

"Yeah, well, Barry's her dad, isn't he? She's only nineteen, remember? She did _tell_ you..."

As though I was listening! As though I'd actually pay attention to anything that nasty little b- _oh, my God, he's been naked in her house!_

"Oh. Of course."

My voice is brittle, but he doesn't notice. He's too busy rummaging in the fridge for something else to eat, still talking about Barry, as though I might actually be interested.

"… actually looked thinner before he started playing Quidditch! Must be all the pub visits after matches... Jesus, there's _nothing_ in here, don't you ever shop?"

I finally snap. "Not really. I tend to just buy something on the way home each night. If you want something to eat maybe you should consider actually buying some food once in a while instead of just eating mine."

He straightens up and stares at me, hurt. "What?"

"Well, if you're going to be living here, don't you think you should make some sort of contribution?"

He doesn't seem to know what to say for a few seconds, then he recovers his composure and gives me what he obviously assumes is a winning smile. "You're absolutely right. I _should_ make a contribution. I'll get some food on my way home tomorrow. Tell you what, I'll even cook, how does that sound?"

I just shrug, too angry to speak.

He frowns. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't think -"

"Oh, well, that's alright then! As long as you're _sorry!_"

I turn on my heel and stalk out of the kitchen, and he follows me into the front room, hovering uneasily in the doorway.

"Hermione..."

"Just leave it."

I throw myself down into the armchair, grab the remote, and turn on the TV, but of course he doesn't take the hint, he just stands there watching me, his arms hanging awkwardly by his sides.

"Hermione."

I ignore him and turn up the volume. My face is flushed with anger and I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the screen in front of me, although the only thing I am aware of is him standing a few feet away, watching me. On the flickering screen is some dreadful American sitcom with gales of canned laughter. He walks deliberately round in front of me and stands directly between me and the screen. I keep my eyes level and pretend to still be watching the telly, although his legs are in the way now.

"Hermione."

I refuse to look up. "You're blocking the screen."

"What's the matter?"

"The matter is I'm trying to watch TV and you're blocking the screen."

He doesn't move.

"Yeah, but what's this actually about?"

"I told you, I'm watching -"

"Yeah, but it's not about that really, is it?"

"What _is_ it about, then?"

He shrugs. "I dunno, it'll be about me not picking my towel off the floor three days ago or you having a row with your mum or something."

"Oh my _God_," I say, with vicious sarcasm, "You're such a _genius_ at understanding women! Calling Dr. Freud!"

He stands there for a few seconds watching me then he says, quietly, "I really hate it when you do that."

My heart jolts. "When I do what?"

"Deliberately use Muggle references you know I won't get to make me feel stupid."

"I don't -"

"Yeah, you do. And I think you know you do."

Guilt courses through me. He's right, but I can't bring myself to admit it. Instead I just raise my chin defiantly high and retort, "Don't make this about _you_ -"

He finally snaps. "Fine, tell me what it _is_ about, then! Then we can argue about _that_ instead of every other sodding thing!"

I turn off the TV with a flourish and hurl the remote into the other chair.

"It's not about any - oh, _forget_ it! I'm going for a walk!"

He makes no attempt to stop me.

---

Halfway down the street it briefly crosses my mind how absurd it is that I was so worried about _him_ leaving, and here I am, running away at the first sign of trouble. The cold night air clears my head with the force of an icy shower, and I regret my actions immediately, but I can't just go back, not when I've overreacted so badly. I keep picturing the confused look on his face. How can I possibly explain what this is really about? How can I possibly explain the messed up thoughts in my head? Of _course_ it's about him. He must know that. It's _all _about him. And her. And the _other_ her, too. It feels like he cheated on me. It feels like betrayal. There's no way I can possibly explain that to him, because I know exactly what his response will be - disbelief, closely followed by anger, and finally hurt.

-----

I kick the low wall outside my block in frustration. I hate being like this. I hated myself when I was like this before, and I was seventeen then, practically a child, I had more of an excuse. I need to find myself again and stop being the whiny jealous pathetic _little girl _I have become. Because that routine worked so well for Lavender, didn't it? It sent him straight into my arms. Well, not _straight _into my arms never let it be said that Ron Weasley made a quick decision about anything - but eventually. And if things carry on like this - if _I_ carry on like this - that's exactly what's going to happen. He'll start to associate Anna with fun and good times, and me with arguing and misery, and I'll only have myself to blame.

I take a deep lungful of cold air and know instantly what I must do. I need to regain control. And we need to get out.

---

When I come back he is sitting in the front room staring into space. We look at each other hesitantly. Ron is wearing the same tense, closed-off expression he wore on that very first Friday evening. He jerks his head towards the coffee table where a crisp new twenty pound note is now lying.

"Let me know if that's not enough," he says, stiffly.

"I don't want your money, Ron."

"That's not what you said earlier."

I sigh and go and sit in the chair beside him and take both his hands in mine. "You were right, it wasn't about the food. I don't care about the food. It's not important."

"Well, what _was_ it about, then?"

"I just... had a really bad day at work, that's all. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm sorry."

It's surprisingly easy to lie to him with a straight face, especially as he visibly relaxes almost immediately.

"Oh. OK. Do you wanna talk about it?"

He says this in the hopeful tone of a man who is praying that the answer will be _"No". _Luckily for him talking about it is the last thing _I _want to do either.

"No, listen… I have a better idea. I think we should go out."

"Go _out?"_ he exclaims incredulously, "I've just got _in!_"

"I know, but... Look, I think maybe we've just spent too long cooped up in this flat. Maybe that's why I got so stressed out, you know? A change of scene might do us good."

He still looks uncertain. "Well… I dunno. What did you have in mind?"

"There's a pub round the corner that has live music on Wednesday nights. I've never been there, so I don't know what it's like, but if we go now we could probably catch the last hour."

He frowns. "I don't know, Hermione, I'm really knackered."

"Just for an hour. Come on, it can't do any harm, can it? Just for one drink. It might be fun!"

"Mmm," he says, in a tone that suggests he expects it to be about as much fun as leprosy.

"Just for one," I plead. "Okay?"

He pulls a face.

"Oh, _come_ on, Ron, I'm trying to make an effort here!"

"No, I know, it's - it's not that."

"Well, what, then?"

A shrug.

"Ron..."

"Well, I haven't got any money now, have I?" he blusters, going red and looking quickly down at his hands. "That was everything I had on me. Muggle money, anyway."

"So I'll buy you a drink."

He glares at me. Stupid idea, obviously. Silly me for even suggesting it.

I bite my lip in frustration. "Okay. So I'll give you your twenty pound note back, and you can buy _me _a drink."

I fetch his jacket from the peg and hold it out to him and, finally out of options, he gives in. With a massive sigh, just to let me know he's only doing it under duress.

"Just for one, though," he persists, hauling himself to his feet and taking his coat from my outstretched hand.

"Fine."

Ron just grunts.

"You never know," I say, brightly, as I close the door behind us, "You might even enjoy it!"



-----

* * *

-----

It doesn't take me long to realise that maybe this wasn't one of my better ideas. The only seats we can get are in the corner between the side of the stage and the toilets, and the music is so loud we can't talk to each other, except by shouting across the table between songs. Not that it matters, because Ron hardly says a word from the moment we leave the flat, and when I ask if he is okay he just mutters, "Headache", and refuses to elaborate further. I always thought that was supposed to be the woman's excuse. Still, I am determined to remain cheerful, and to beat him into enjoying himself if I have to.

---

The band are a dreadful rock covers act, with a singer the wrong side of forty who is clearly under the mistaken impression she's Yorkshire's answer to Tina Turner. I can't decide whether to laugh or cry when she shrieks and hollers her way through a succession of overwrought versions of dreadful 80s and 90s power ballads that all seem to have something to say about our particular situation. _If I Could Turn Back Time, It's A Heartache, Since You Been Gone, Alone, _and my particular favourite_, Love Is A Battlefield_. A metaphor I could have done without, frankly, no matter how pertinent. Fortunately Ron's knowledge of Muggle pop music is zero, so he doesn't get the irony when half an hour of him staring down into his pint is soundtracked by a middle-aged woman in a tight leather skirt and too much eye make-up belting out Eighties rock hits as though her life depended on it.

---

Tragically, I know far more than I ought to about this stuff because too many long childhood car journeys to my Nan's house in Bristol were soundtracked by my dad's homemade soft rock compilations. Dad attempting to play air guitar whilst driving, and Mum commenting acidly that one of these days we'd have an accident and the last thing she wanted to hear while she was lying bleeding to death in the wreckage was _Stuck With You _by Huey Lewis And The News. I want to tell Ron, but he won't get the reference. It would be funny if I was with someone who appreciated the sheer cheesiness of it all. My mum would have found the whole thing hilarious. My dad would have been up there on the stage begging to be given a turn on the guitar. Ron just sits there avoiding eye contact and answering any questions I ask him with words of one syllable or a non-committal shrug.

---

Hysteria starts to kick in about the time Tina of the East Riding gets to the chorus of _It Must Have Been Love _by Roxette: "_It must have been love, but it's over now, it must have been good, but I lost it somehow..." _If I was drinking I might be tempted to stand up on my chair and join in, like I did that time at Fat Nigel's birthday after one too many rum and cokes. But after Sunday's debacle, I have made a vow to stay absolutely stone cold sober, at least for the next few weeks. I need my wits about me. Oh God, no, not _this_...

_"Turnaround, Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming round..."_

My dad used to have this album. He played it incessantly in the car that summer my Nan was ill in hospital, and it always reminds me of being trapped for hours in a sweltering car in a traffic jam on the M4 whenever I hear it. He got air-conditioning the following year, but of course, there were no more cross-country journeys to my Nan's after that. It seems like a very long time ago now. I still miss her sometimes. I wish she could have met Ron. She was quite no-nonsense, my Nan. She'd have knocked our heads together.

_"Turnaround, Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears..."_

Jennifer Rush; that was the other one he liked. Mum used to say wearily that maybe if she filled the bedroom with dry ice, put on some leather trousers and backcombed her hair, she could get Dad's attention away from the motor racing. I chuckle to myself at the memory.

_"Every now and then I fall apart..."_

A sudden crash of broken glass from behind the bar is followed by a huge cheer and ironic applause from the crowd. Tina's a consummate professional though, she just hollers even louder over the racket, eyes tightly closed in that way bad singers sometimes do to show how carried away they are by the words of the song, one hand clenched into a fist of emotion. Oh, this was a genius idea. This is _hilarious. _

"_And I need you now tonight,_

_And I need you more than ev-ah"_

I want to laugh, but then halfway through the song I get an inexplicable lump in my throat and have to take a large gulp of my lemonade to stop the tears from welling up inside me.

_"And if you'll only hold me tight-" _

I will _not_ cry because of this ridiculous song. What is _wrong_ with me?

_"We'll be holding on forever"_

I watch him across the table. He's not even listening to the band and has hardly touched his drink. He looks about as miserable as I've ever seen him. I've never really listened to the words of this song before. How can a stupid 1980s metal ballad have so much to say about our particular situation? It's from about 1985, for God's sake! I was _six! _But, oh -

_"Turnaround, Every now and then I know you'll never be the boy you always wanted to be._

_Turnaround, Every now then I know you'll always be the only boy who wanted me the way that I am._

_Turnaround, Every now and then I know there's no one in the universe as magical and wondrous as you._

_Turnaround, Every now and then I know there's nothing any better and there's nothing that I just wouldn't do"_

It's ridiculous. _I'm_ ridiculous. It doesn't even scan properly. "There's nothing that I just wouldn't do"? It doesn't even make grammatical sense!

"Can we go?"

I glance up. Ron is watching me impatiently

"What? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course, if that's -"

But he has already got to his feet and is halfway to the door.

"Ron!"

I pick up my bag and coat and run after him, but I'm impeded by the crowd and several people carrying drinks. When I finally get to the door and wrench it open rain blows into my face and nearly knocks me backwards. I pull my coat on and run out into the night, panic-stricken, to look for him. He's standing in a shop doorway about twenty yards along the street, staring into the dark window. I run up to him and slip my arm through his and he looks down at my arm in vague surprise. I lean up to kiss him but he pulls his head away.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he says gruffly.

"Well…"

"To be honest, Hermione, I really just want to go home."

I manage to raise a weak smile.

"Alright."

I start to walk off, but he just stands there unmoving and I'm jerked back by my grip on his arm.

"Come on, then!"

He continues to look at me, pointedly. It takes me several seconds to realise he doesn't mean the flat.

"What? _No! _Why?"

He shrugs and looks down at his feet, avoiding my eyes. "I just want to get some sleep, that's all."

"You can sleep at my place."

"Yeah." He gives a rueful smile. "The thing is, Hermione… It's all a bit much, this. You know, all at once."

"It's only been ten days! You have to give it a chance!"

"I know, and I have. I _am_. I just need to go home and get my head straight. It's just for one night."

"What about Ginny?"

He shrugs again. "It'll be fine."

"But -"

"I just need time to think, that's all. I can't think around you."

"_Please_, Ron -"

"Look, it's not like I'm not gonna come back. It's just for a couple of days -"

Anger and panic are rising within me. "_A couple of days! _I thought you said it was just for one night!"

"I just need sp-"

"Don't you _dare_ tell me you need _space!_"

He falters in the face of my fury. "Alright."

"You've had _two years _of _space!_ You said you weren't going to leave! You said you _wanted_ this!"

"I do. It's just -"

"Then… _why? _I don't understand!"

"I know you don't."

"Well, make me understand, then!"

He gives a helpless shrug.

"Is this about me wanting to meet your family?" I ask, instantly certain this must be the answer, "Look, I've been thinking about that. You're right, it's too soon. I shouldn't have asked. We don't have to go if you don't want to. I don't mind. Whatever you wa-"

"Alright," he says quickly, not even attempting to hide his obvious relief.

"So...?" I say, hopefully.

He looks blank. "So...?"

"So, is everything okay now? Can we go home?"

He visibly squirms. "It's not really that simple, Hermione."

I stare at him, outraged. I feel tricked into letting him get out of the dreaded meeting with his family, and now he still wants to leave?

"What do you mean, _not that simple?_"

He screws up his face in frustration. "I just think… I don't know. Do you ever think maybe this is a mistake?"

_"No!"_

"Right. Because sometimes… I dunno, it just seems like you're pissed off with me for some reason." He looks at me steadily, challenging me to disagree.

"I told you, Ron, I just had a bad day at work, that's all. I thought I _explained_ all that."

"Yeah." He looks down at the floor and shuffles his feet awkwardly. "I don't just mean tonight."

I don't know what to say. There _have_ been times I have been angry and upset with him. Lots of times. Somehow I had managed to kid myself he hadn't noticed. Somehow I had managed to persuade myself it was all just in my head.

"Maybe it's just because you're used to living on your own now or something. I know I can be a bit annoying sometimes -"

"You're not annoying. It's not you."

" - but I can't help thinking that… well… maybe this just isn't working..."

I stare at him, a kind of numbness spreading through my body.

"It's like what you said earlier," he says, warming to his theme now, "You know, that maybe we've been cooped up in the house too long. Maybe that was our problem before. Maybe we just spent too much time together, and that was why you got fed up with me and fucked off."

"No, that's not what I meant. That's not what happ-"

"Maybe we should just… not split up, necessarily, just not live together. I obviously annoy you -"

"You don't annoy me! That's not what I meant!"

"… and to be honest, I'm finding the whole thing kind of hard too…"

"You are?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"I… I bite my lip a lot of the time."

I feel my whole body go cold. "You do?"

He nods.

"Oh," I say, again.

"I just... don't know what I want anymore. I don't think you do either. So…" He takes a deep breath. "I think maybe it would be better if I went home. Just for a bit, you know, see how it goes. We can still _see _each other, it's not like it's forev -"

He stops talking abruptly and his eyes widen. He turns away from me, careers wildly across the narrow street, rebounds off the glass window of the shop opposite, and is neatly sick into the gutter. He's back before I even have time to react, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and looking sheepish.

"Sorry..."

"That's alright, you're not well, you should have said -"

_Of course. It all makes sense now. He's sick, he doesn't know what he's saying. _

"Must have been the saveloy," he says, forcing a grimace. "Good thing I didn't eat yours as well, eh? I was going to."

"Come home, Ron, I'll make up a potion for you."

He shakes his head vehemently then stops, clutching at the sides of his head as though it might fall off. "Shouldn't have done that," he says weakly.

"You can't possibly go home in this state. We can talk about this tomorrow. Just…" I reach out my hand and touch his sleeve. "Please come home."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. Don't you think it would be better if I just went back to Ginny's and slept it off?"

"No, I don't."

He gives me a pleading look, as though asking for my permission to let him go. "It's just for one night."

He seems to have forgotten that only a few minutes ago he was telling me it was "just for a few days".

"You're not well, Ron," I say soothingly, "You don't know what you're saying."

"I'm fine!"

"You're not fine. You're shivering."

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of _wet_. Standing out here in the rain all bloody night isn't exactly helping." He gives me a hopeful look, which I ignore. Instead I reach up and press my hand to his forehead.

"You're burning up!"

He pushes my hand away. "I'm alright!"

"Don't be ridiculous, you look as though you're about to keel over at any moment."

"I'm _fine! _I just need some sleep, that's all. Look, I'll come round and see you tomorrow evening after work, how's that?"

He's bargaining with me now. Well, it isn't going to work. I know that he's in no fit state to argue with me, and that the longer I keep him standing out here in the rain, keep him talking, the more likely he is to just give in.

"I can't possibly let you go home like this. What would Ginny say? She'd never forgive me!"

He shows every sign of protesting further, and I cut him off quickly before he can say anything. "We can talk about it tomorrow," I say, firmly.

"But -"

I just give him a "Don't argue with me" look, and he frowns.

"I'll just throw up all over your nice flat," he says, with an air of desperation, "You don't want that, do you?"

"I don't care."

All cards played, he glances wildly up and down the street to check there is no-one watching, then back to me again, a guilty expression flashing across his face as he realises I must know he is thinking about DisApparating home and leaving me standing here. He looks even more unwell in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlight, and his face is glistening with rainwater or sweat, I can't tell which.

"It's not because I'm sick, Hermione. You've got to know that. I've been thinking about this for days."

He gives me a pleading sort of look. I know he wants me to say that I understand, that I heard all the things he said, that I'm taking him seriously, and I also know that at this moment I will say anything, promise _anything_, if he will just come home with me tonight.

"I do know. You're right, of course. We can talk about it later. We can sort it out, I'm sure of it. It can wait 'til tomorrow, can't it? What difference does one more night make? Please… just come back with me now. If you still want to go home tomorrow, I promise I won't try to stop you."

He hesitates. "Well..."

I try and make a desperate joke of it. "You can't possibly Apparate back to London in this state, you'll end up halfway up Mount Snowdon or something!" My manic laugh echoes hollowly in the empty street.

We look at each other.

Behind us the door of the pub opens and laughing people and the sound of a bad Tina Turner impersonator murdering _Simply The Best _spills out into the night.

-----

* * *

_**Author's note:**__** Because... I loathe and despise song fics (and I love, love, love a cliffhanger!). **_

_**As always, hope you liked it, and please leave a review; you know I love it when you review! Thank you! PB x**_

* * *


	9. Chapter 9: Two Years Earlier

**Chapter Nine: Two Years Earlier**

He takes the letter from my hand and scrutinises it slowly, frowning. "But... I don't understand. This is a job at a completely different company?"

"Yes!" I beam.

His face has clouded over completely now. "And you went for an interview... when was this?"

"Oh, a while ago."

_"When?"_ he persists.

"Last week."

"Last week!" He gives a mirthless laugh. "And you didn't think to mention it?"

I am confused now by his reaction. This is not what I expected. "Well...no..."

"Huh."

"No, Ron, look, I didn't know whether I'd get it, did I?"

"Hermione, this is_ you_ we're talking about. Smartest witch of your age and all that. Of_ course_ you'd get it."

"Well... I don't know..."

He shakes his head. "You didn't tell me you were looking for a new job," he says, accusingly. 

"I wasn't, I told you; I just saw the advert in the paper and thought I'd go for it."

"But you didn't think to mention it to me?"

"No, I - look, you're reading far too much into this."

"Am I?"

"You're being silly -"

"Oh, right, I see,_ I'm_ being silly..."

"Oh, Ron, don't get all offended, this isn't about you!"

"No, apparently not."

"Ron -"

"I just don't understand how come this is the first I've heard of it, that's all."

We stare at each other unhappily. Eventually he shakes his head. "I'm going to have a bath," he announces, and walks away without another word.

I stare at his retreating back, stunned. I don't understand what has just happened. I expected to feel exulted and for him to share that joy, but instead everything just feels flat.

* * *

"What do you expect me to _say_, Hermione?"

"I expect you to say "well done"! I expect you to be _happy_ for me!"

"Yeah, well..." He gives an airy shrug. "_I_ expect you to _tell_ me things, so I guess we're even."

* * *

"Hermione," he whispers softly, then when I don't reply, more urgently, "_Hermione!"_

I open my eyes. "_What_, Ron?" I ask, irritably.

He bites his lip. "Why didn't you tell me about the job interview?"

I bury my face in the pillow and silently scream into it. "I've told you already, I didn't think I'd get it, so I didn't see the point. We've been_ through_ all this."

"Yeah, but you still haven't really explained why you didn't want to tell me, so that's why I keep having to ask you about it."

"It's not that I didn't want to tell you -" I close my eyes and sigh wearily. "Just leave it."

"So, what, you're not gonna tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell."

"Fine, don't tell me then."

"Oh, my God! There's nothing to tell, Ron! How many more times?"

"But -"

"Go to sleep, Ron."

* * *

"Why don't you ever clean the bath when you've finished? It would only take you two seconds if you used your wand!"

"_Yeah_," he says, as though it is the most logical thing in the world, "But I don't take my wand into the bathroom, do I?"

"Well, maybe you should think about it! Instead of leaving _me_ to clean up after you!"

"Nobody's _asking_ you to clean the bloody bath. If you just left it, _I'd_ do it."

"No, if I just _left_ it, nothing round here would ever get done."

"I did the washing up yesterday!" he protests, indignantly.

"Oh, big deal! You do _one_ thing and you expect a big round of applause! I am not your mother, Ron; I am not going to go round cleaning up after you!"

"I'm not asking you to!"

"Well, I'm asking _you_ to! _Again_. I'm just sick of it, Ron. I shouldn't have to ask you do things like you're ten years old."

"Well, don't, then!"

"You should just _know_ these things need doing and _do_ them. You're supposed to be an _adult_."

"I'm supposed to be able to relax in my own home -"

"It's not just _your_ home, it's _my_ home too! And _I _don't want to live in a filthy pigsty!"

"Well, go and live somewhere else, then, if you don't like it!"

This childish retort makes me even more furious, and I grab his wand from the bedside table and hurl it at his head, but it soars past and rebounds off the wall with a loud thwack.

"You always were a rubbish thrower," he scoffs, and he turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

* * *

"Yeah, but why are you_ really_ going?"

"I've told you, the job. How many_ more_ times?"

"Well, I don't believe you."

"I know it must be hard for you to imagine, Ron, but_ some_ people actually_ care_ about their jobs."

"What's_ that_ supposed to mean?"

"I just mean that my job is important to me in a way that yours obviously isn't important to you."

"It's just a job!"

"Clearly. Since you only took it in the first place because you got a twenty per cent discount on your Chudley Cannons season ticket."

"It was thirty per cent, and what's wrong with that?"

"Oh,_ nothing!_ If you're happy to sit at the same desk for the rest of your life like your dad did, and never make anything of yourself and never make any decent money, you go ahead!"

"Yeah, well..." - he casts around for a nasty enough retort - "Maybe I just think_ people_ are more important than_ money."_

"Rubbish!" I snort, "You care_ much_ more about money than I do! You always have!"

"Easy enough for you to say when you've always_ had_ some!"

"That's got nothing to do with it!"

"It's got_ everything_ to do with it! And you_ know_ I don't care that you earn more than I do! For Christ's sake, don't you think I'm used to it by now?"

"_Used_ to it is not the same as_ happy_ about it!"

"Well, if you want me to be_ happy_ about it," he snarls, "You'll have to wait a_ long fucking time.._."

* * *

"What do you want to _do_ with your life? Don't you have any ambitions? Don't you have any_ dreams?"_

"I want to be with you. That's all I've ever wanted. Is that not a good enough ambition?"

"That doesn't count! Don't you want to do anything for a career? With your_ life?_"

"No! I just want to be happy! I want to be happy, with you, and I just want not to be dead and for you not to be dead and for Harry and Ginny and the rest of my family not to be dead, and I'm just grateful for that! Why isn't that enough for you?"

"Because I_ am_ grateful to be alive and I don't want to waste my life, I want to make something of it, otherwise what did we go through all that_ for?_"

"Fine, you do that, that's fine for you! What does it matter if_ I_ don't?"

"Because I care about you and I don't want to see you waste your life!"

"Hermione, I'm twenty fucking four, why do I have to have a fucking plan for the rest of my life_ now?_ I'm just enjoying it while I can, before we have kids and all that other stuff!"

"Oh, right, because then all the fun will stop, is that what you're saying?"

"No, I'm not - you're twisting my words!"

"And you seem pretty sure of yourself that I'm going to give up my job if we have kids! My_ God!_ You're just like your dad when it comes down to it, aren't you?"

"Don't bring my dad into this! And what's wrong with being like my dad anyway?"

"Oh, nothing, as long as you don't expect_ me_ to start being like your mum!"

"Oh, here we go -"

"Your mum couldn't make it plainer that she wishes you'd gone out with a nice timid little witch who'd just stay at home and bake bread all day and churn out babies. Every time I use the word career she acts as though I just said a rude word!"

"She doesn't think that. You're over-reacting."

"I'm not over-reacting, Ron. She might as well have said it to my face."

"Well, anyway," he bluffs, "It doesn't really matter what she thinks, does it?_ I_ don't care about any of that stuff, so -"

"You don't care about any of_ what_ stuff?"

He flushes. "Well, you know... marriage and kids and stuff. Not_ now_, anyway. Although if you_ did_ - you know -_ want_ to, I wouldn't be, like, gutted or anything."

He's digging a bigger and bigger hole for himself, and he knows it.

"What I mean is -"

"So if I got pregnant tomorrow you'd be horrified, would you?"

"No, that's not what -"

His eyes widen. "_Hermione!_ Is that what this is all about? Are you..." - He lowers his voice as though someone might be listening in -_ "Pregnant...?"_

He stares at me, a look of shock mingled with delight spreading across his face.

"_No!_ No, I'm not pregnant, but you clearly wish I was!"

He looks crestfallen. "So you're_ not_ pregnant then?" he asks, flatly.

"No, thank God!"

"Right. Yeah... yeah, cos we're not really ready, are we? And obviously you've got to think about your career and that..."

"Oh, so you_ do_ think my career is the only thing standing in the way of me churning out lots of little Weasleys like I'm obviously supposed to? Well, I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to your family! Maybe you should have stuck with_ Lavender_, you could have a whole_ set_ of little Lavenders and little Rons by now!"

"That's not what I meant, I was just agreeing with you because you said you wanted to concentrate on your career! I was_ agreeing_ with you!"

"Oh_ forget_ it! I'm going to have a bath!"

I storm out of the room and slam the door to the bathroom behind me, turning the taps on to drown out the sound of the angry sobs that immediately come to my throat. I'm still lying there in the now icy water when he knocks on the door an hour later.

"Hermione, I need to brush my teeth, can I come in?"

I am certain that is just an excuse, but he comes in, brushes his teeth, and leaves, all without saying a word to me or even looking in my direction. When I go to bed half an hour later the lights are off and he is pretending to be asleep. I am too tired to challenge him on it, so I just turn my back on him and close my eyes and wait for sleep to close the curtain on another awful day.

* * *

"Ron, have you seen my purse?"

No reply. I stick my head round the door of the kitchen, where he is slicing bread for a sandwich.

"Ron! Did you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Are you not talking to me now? That's very mature of you."

I can see his shoulders tense, but he doesn't turn around, and he doesn't reply. I sigh loudly and go back into the front room with my cup of tea. He appears in the doorway a few minutes later with his sandwich and hovers there, annoyingly.

"Oh, for God's sake, come_ in_ if you're going to!"

I whip round at the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut behind him. For the first time I truly appreciate how small this flat is. There's nowhere for either of us to go to escape each other.

By the time I've made up my mind to go and force him to talk to me an hour later the lights have been turned off and he has gone to bed, although it is not even ten o'clock. Back in the front room I curl up on the sofa and lie there listening to the deathly silence and the ticking of the clock until I am lulled into a fitful sleep. In the morning I awake in the same position with a stiff neck to find a cold cup of tea by my side and a blanket thrown over me. He must have woken in the night and wondered where I was. Before I know it I am in floods of tears.

* * *

"I hate this lamp!"

He glances up from the Daily Prophet Quidditch pages wearily. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's_ hideous_, that's what wrong with it!"

"That was a present from my mum and dad!" he protests, offended.

"So? Doesn't make it any less hideous!"

He takes a deep breath. "It's a fucking_ lamp_, Hermione, who_ cares_ what it looks like? You switch it on, you switch it off, what else does it need to do?"

"Yes, that's exactly the kind of attitude I'd expect from _you!"_

"Hermione," he says calmly, shaking his head, "I'm sorry, but you've lost it. I'm not standing here listening to this anymore."

"Oh, fine, walk away, why don't you? Don't even _try _and face the problem or anything!"

"Alright, fine, what _is _the problem? 'Cos you know, we've been having these arguments for nearly two whole weeks now and I still haven't got a fucking clue what we're arguing about!"

"Oh, my _God!_ Haven't you been listening to _anything_ I've said?"

"Yeah, I've been _listening_, but you still haven't answered the bloody question, so what am I supposed to think?"

"Oh,_ shut_ up, Ron! I'm sick of listening to your pathetic, childish nonsense!"

"Yeah? Well, maybe_ I'm_ sick of listening to your - your -"

"My_ what?"_

Unable to think of a reply, he just turns his back on me and slams out of the flat.

* * *

"Oh, _come_ on, Hermione, you're not even dressed!"

"I'm drying my hair!"

"I can see that, I'm not blind. We're supposed to be there by now!"

"I won't be long."

"How long?"

"I don't know, Ron, stop pestering me and go and have a cup of tea or something."

"Ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour?"

I just ignore him and continue drying my hair. I can see his reflection behind me in the mirror, standing there with his arms folded and a disgruntled expression on his face.

"_What, _Ron?"

"Why do you always need two hours to dry your bloody hair?"

"You know why, and please don't swear at me, I've told you I'll be as quick as I can."

He gives a disbelieving grunt and leaves the room, presumably just to sit in the front room and stew, because a few minutes later he's back, having wound himself up into barely-controlled fury.

"Well?" he demands.

"Fifteen minutes."

He throws his hands up and storms out of the room again, returning almost immediately with his coat on and carrying a four pack of beer and a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

"I'll go on my own, then," he announces grandly.

"Fine, go."

"I mean it."

I finally lose my temper. "Go, then! Go to your stupid party! Stop just threatening it and put me out of my sodding misery!"

He takes a deep breath. "Fine," he says, shortly, and he leaves the wine bottle on the end of my dressing table and turns away from me, out of the bedroom. Ten seconds later I hear the door slam behind him. I stare blankly at my reflection in the mirror, at the little blodges of foundation on my cheeks and chin, and my still-damp hair. Sighing, I pick up a cotton wool pad and wipe my face. No point going out now. In a way, I'm actually quite relieved. At least I don't have to spend the evening looking at Ron's miserable face. God, that's terrible. But maybe that's what we need, a night apart. Ron can go to the party and hopefully have a few drinks and a laugh and come back considerably less uptight than he's been lately. And I - I can sit here and drink this bottle of wine and I don't have to pretend everything's wonderful between us to our friends.

* * *

I feel the bed creak as he gets into it and snuggles up to my back. I can feel his hot breath on my neck. His hand worms its way through the crook of my arm and starts none too gently groping my breast. I put up with it for about ten seconds before I snap, irritably,_ "Stop it!" _

"Oh_ come_ on," he whines, "It's been_ ages_..."

"Ron..." I whisper sweetly, already relishing the effect I know my words will have. _"Honey..."_

"Wha'?" he mumbles, still nuzzling my neck.

"Fuck off."

Silence. A thrill of expectation goes through me. The nuzzling stops, the hand is withdrawn from my t-shirt and he gets up and leaves the room without a word, taking his pillow with him and closing the door quietly behind him. I expected to feel triumph, but instead I just feel empty, and strangely alone. When was the last time we lay in each other's arms and just held each other? When was the last time we kissed? When was the last time we were just _happy?_

I can't even remember the last time I got through a whole day without crying, or the last time either of us smiled. I seem to have permanent toothache because I've started grinding my teeth at night with the strain of it all. We can't seem to manage a civil word to each other. Last night our entire bedtime routine - getting undressed, brushing our teeth, turning out the lights - was conducted in complete silence, like an elaborate mime. Of course, the fact that there's been no sexual contact now for nearly two weeks isn't exactly helping the situation, but I instinctively feel that I can't give in until there is some sort of resolution, that he doesn't deserve it, that there can be no pudding until he has eaten his greens. But I'm not sure anymore who it is that I am punishing.



The sudden withdrawal of any sort of physical affection at all is the hardest thing. I can't remember the last time we kissed, or cuddled or even just hugged. Ron has started biting his nails again, I suspect just for something to do with his hands. Well, I say biting; they're practically gnawed down to the quick. There was a time - last week? - when I woke up to find his arms around me and I didn't say anything, I just lay there trying not to move so I wouldn't wake him, grateful for the warmth, the contact. At least, until he woke up himself, realised, and let go of me as though I was on fire, muttering a hasty apology. An _apology!_ For touching me! So this is what it has come to.

* * *

Ron is sitting on the sofa staring blankly into space when I arrive home late from work the following night. He still has his coat on and his bag is propped up on the floor beside him. He is still clutching his door keys tightly in his hand.

"Have you just got in?"

He looks up, startled. "What?"

"Have you just got in?" I repeat, impatiently.

He frowns, as though that's somehow a difficult question. "What time is it?"

"About eight o'clock. How long have you been sitting there?"

He shrugs. "I don't know," he admits, "A while."

We look at each other.

"Did you have a nice day?" he asks, with a massive amount of effort and a complete lack of enthusiasm that makes me absolutely certain he couldn't give the slightest toss about my day.

I sigh. "Why, do you care?"

"Not particularly."

"I didn't think so."

I walk into the kitchen and leave him sitting alone in the dark.

* * *

"You know what? I was quite happy with my life until you started telling me I shouldn't be. I liked my job. I liked not having to worry about it outside of work. I liked occasionally getting out of the office to go and measure Quidditch pitches. I was quite happy with the money I was on too. Alright, it wasn't brilliant, but it was enough. Now I don't know what I think anymore."

"Yes, well, maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe it's about time you considered what you really want to do with your life, rather than stick with a job you just fell into. You have to think about the future sometime, you know."

"Do I?"

"Of course you do! That's what _I'm_ doing, thinking about the future! Moving on! You can't stay static for forever."

"No," he says glumly, "I suppose not," and I can tell he's thinking that staying static forever sounds like a pretty good plan.

"Just because your dad was in the same job for nearly twenty years doesn't mean you have to."

"Yeah." He stares at his shoes. "When he was my age my dad was married with three kids."

I glance up at him sharply. "What does _that_ mean?"

He shrugs miserably. "I dunno. He had everything sorted, didn't he? He knew what he was going to do with the rest of his life."

"And that's what _you_ want, is it?" I ask hotly, "Marriage and kids and a desk job you can stay in 'til you retire and a nice little wife at home who'll just churn out babies and spend all her time baking pies?"

"No! When have I ever said that?"

"Oh, so that's _not_ what you want, is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know! What's so wrong with marriage and kids and a job for life, anyway? It was good enough for my parents!"

"Yes, well, maybe I want more than that! Maybe _I _don't want to waste my life!"

"And that's what you think my mum did, is it? Wasted her life bringing us lot up? Maybe that's what she _wanted_, have you ever considered that?"

"How do _you_ know what she wanted? Have you ever _asked_ her? Maybe she had all sorts of hopes and ambitions that didn't include having seven kids in ten years and sublimating all her needs to the needs of her family!"

"Shut up about my mum! You think you know everyone's business better than they do, but you don't! Just because it's not what _you_ want to do with your life doesn't give you any right to look down on my mum because that's what _she_ wanted! I thought that was what _you_ wanted too!"

I am flabbergasted. "What, to become a _housewife?"_

"No! Marriage and kids and all that stuff! I asked you once, and you said you _did_ want to marry me someday, just not yet! You said we were too young! What was that, a _lie?"_

"No, I –"

"So, what, you've changed your mind now, is that it?"

"I'm not having this conversation –"

"I'm just trying to understand what this is all _about_, Hermione."

"You _know_ what this is about."

"No. I don't. I know what you've _told_ me it's about. But I don't know what it's _actually_ about. Because, you know, we keep having these sodding conversations, and you keep telling me all these things you _don't_ want, but you never seem to tell me what you _do_ want. Do you even _know_ what you want?"

I open my mouth and close it again.

"Well?" he demands.

I take a deep breath. "I'm going for a walk."

* * *

"Why are you doing this to me, Hermione?"

"Excuse me, _what? _Why am I doing this to _you? _My God! Not everything is about you, you know! I know it's hard to believe but Ron Weasley is not the centre of the universe!"

"Fine, well, tell me what it _is_ about, then!"

"I'm not going to have this conversation with you again, Ron. It's getting boring."

"Yeah, well," he flashes back, "Maybe _I'm_ getting bored of _asking!"_

Don't, then. Go and - play with your wand or something."

He gives a derisory laugh. "Might as well. It's not like _you're_ going to..."

He walks away quickly before I can tell him where to stick his wand.

* * *

"My parents have invited us to dinner on Sunday, by the way."

"Can't," he grunts.

"What do you mean,_ can't?"_

"I mean,_ can't_. Christ," he adds, viciously, "And_ you're_ supposed to be the_ smart_ one!".

I stare at him with something like hatred. "_Why_ can't we?"

"Well,_ you_ can, if you want._ You_ can do whatever the fuck you like._ I've_ got other plans."

"What other plans?"

"What do you care?"

"You haven't mentioned this before."

He gives a snort of derision. "Now you know how it feels," he mutters.

I clench my teeth in anger. "Is this about you just trying to prove a point? My God! That's just..."

"Just_ what?"_ he snarls.

"Petty. Pathetic. I don't believe you've made any other plans at all, you're just saying it to get back at me."

"Oh, right, because I couldn't_ possibly_ have anything better to do with my life than have lunch with your_ fucking_ parents!"

"No, that's right, you couldn't!_ If_ you have any plans - which I seriously_ doubt_ - I'm sure it's something thoroughly impressive and surprising, not just going to the pub with Mike and sitting around talking about sodding_ Quidditch!"_

"Better than sitting around listening to you and your parents talking about sodding_ books!"_

"Just because the last book_ you_ read had_ pictures_ in it!"

He sucks his breath in sharply. "Thanks for that," he says sourly. "Enjoy your lunch."

* * *

"You're putting them in the wrong way up!" I snap, pushing him out of the way, and starting to rearrange the cups on the top shelf of the dishwasher.

"No, I'm not!" he protests, indignantly, "I'm putting them in the_ right_ way up!"

"They're supposed to be upside down!" I hiss, furiously, "Otherwise they get filled with dirty water!"

"Well, how the hell am I supposed to know that, for Christ's sake, I've never used one of these bloody things before, have I?"

"You don't have to - oh my God, it's just common sense! What's_ wrong_ with you?"

He opens his mouth to retort but then stops and takes a deep breath instead. "Fine. Do what you want. I'm going home."

"What do you mean, you're going home? Don't be ridiculous, you can't, we're in the middle of dinner!"

"Watch me."

He turns on his heel and walks away. Seconds later I hear the front door being opened and then slammed shut behind him. My dad puts his head tentatively around the door of the kitchen.

"Is everything alright, love?"

"Everything's fine." I force a smile on my face and turn around. "Do you want coffee?"

* * *

I wake to find Ron hogging the duvet again, and deliberately pull it as hard as I can back over my body. Some time later I wake up shivering to find he has grabbed it back again, and anger rising within me, I thump him hard between the shoulder blades and yank it away from him. He yelps.

"Hermione, for fuck's sake, I'm freezing my nuts off here!"

"Oh, lovely turn of phrase, Ronald," I snarl, ignoring him and clutching the duvet even tighter around my body.

He sits up and stares at me accusingly. "When did you start using my full name all the time?"

"When you started being a monumental pain in the arse all the time,_ Ronald_." I retort, knowing full well he has no similar recourse with my name.

"Fantastic," he says sarcastically, lying down again and turning his back on me, "I'm sleeping with my fucking_ Mum_."

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

"Oh, what a witty comeback."

"You said it first. "

"_You said it first,"_ I repeat, in a mocking whiny voice. He doesn't reply, just reaches his hand out behind him, grabs the duvet firmly and pulls as hard as he can.

Our bed has become a battleground. We pull the duvet back and forth between us angrily for several minutes until, inevitably, three weeks of pent-up frustration spills over and, duvet forgotten, we find ourselves kissing furiously, our hands frenziedly tearing at each other's night clothes. He pushes me roughly back down onto the bed and pins me down by my hair, so I can't move my head without a sharp stab of pain. And somehow, that's what I want. At least I'm feeling _something_. He can't even look me in the eye, he averts his gaze to the pillow beside my head and I am grateful for that. There's no love in it, no tenderness, no warmth. It's just fucking without pleasure. Every thrust is like a blow. We just want to hurt each other, to cause pain and feel pain in return. I dig my nails into his shoulders as hard as I can, so hard I'm sure I must have broken the skin, and he gasps, and bites his lip, but doesn't say a word. For a brief moment our eyes meet, and we understand exactly what we are doing, what we have become, then he averts his eyes once more. It is over in minutes and afterwards he just rolls over and turns his back on me, as though he can't bear to look at me, and I lie there and stare blankly up at the ceiling. I feel nothing. I am dead inside.

* * *

Damn. I'm going to be late. For the last week I have taken to getting up and going in to work early, just so I can avoid him, but this morning, exhausted after three weeks of arguments and last night's exertions, we have both overslept, and now Ron has come into the kitchen behind me to make his breakfast. Not for the first time, I curse the tiny size of our kitchen, and the fact that neither of us can move about without having to almost squeeze past the other. No, it's no good, I can't be in this room with him a moment longer. I shall just have to go to Luigi's instead and get a very large, very strong coffee. God knows I need it this morning.

"You're late today."

I am so surprised that he has addressed me that I actually jump. I can feel him watching me, and I don't dare look up from my coffee making.

"Yes, thank you, I was aware of that fact."

"Why don't you take the day off?"

"What?" I can't help it; I turn to look at him. "What for?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Tell them you're ill or something."

"And why would I do that?"

Another shrug. "No reason."

We stare at each other.

"I'm late, Ron, I haven't got time for this."

"I'm late as well!"

"Yes, well," I say, crisply, "Unlike you, I actually have people that rely on me coming into work on time in the morning, and unlike you, I have actual _work_ to do, I don't get paid to sit around all day talking about Saturday's match results."

"Fine! _Fine!_ I don't know why I fucking bother! Christ, Hermione, I'm only trying to –"

He waves his arms to demonstrate his point and accidentally knocks a glass off the kitchen worktop and crashing to the floor where tiny shards of glass go everywhere.

"Look what you've done_ now!_"

"Well, if we didn't have such a stupidly small kitchen..." he grumbles, bending down to clear it up.

"Don't use your hands, for God's sake, use your wand, you'll cut yourself!"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a fucking kid -_ ow!_"

He straightens up, sucking his cut fingers.

"See? I told you what would happen! Why didn't you use your wand like I told you?"

"Why don't you get off my back?"

"You're dripping blood on the floor now! Hold your hand over the sink, can't you?"

He turns on the tap with his other hand and holds the injured one under the cold tap. "Thanks for the sympathy!"

"If you'd listened to me in the first place you wouldn't_ need_ any sympathy!"

He turns his back on me and mutters something that is no doubt obscene under his breath.

I stare at his back with something like hatred for a few seconds, and then storm into the bedroom where I grab his wand from the bedside table, pausing only to kick viciously at one of his shoes that is lying on its side in the centre of the room like a miniature beached whale._ "Why can't you ever pick anything up?"_ I scream, and suddenly feel overwhelmed and exhausted and sit down heavily on the edge of the bed to calm down. I sit there for several minutes staring into space, trying to calm my ragged breathing, gripping the wand tightly in my hand.

"Oh, that's great, don't mind me, you just have a nice sit down while I'm bleeding to death!"

He has followed me into the room, a bloody tea towel wrapped around his hand. He wrenches the wand from my hand and takes it back into the kitchen, ignoring my protestations that tea towels are full of germs and he'll get an infection. "Like_ you_ care," he mutters, but I pretend not to hear.

"Don't use a tea towel, you'll get tetanus."

"I'll get what?"

"Tetanus."

He makes a frustrated sound. "And again… I'll get_ what?_"

"Tetanus. Blood poisoning."

"Well, why the hell didn't you just_ say_ that?"

"Perhaps I assumed you might actually know what I was talking about for once."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you actually_ told_ me things, I_ might_ do!"

I watch him unwrap the tea towel bandage, then point his wand at his hand and mutter a few words. The deep cut heals over instantly. Another few words clears up the blood on his hand and in the sink.

"There's some on the floor, too."

"Al_right!"_ he snaps. "I'm_ doing_ it, aren't I?_ Jesus!_"

"I'm just saying -"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, your nice clean floor is more important than my hand!_ Fine!_"

"Oh, don't be such a baby, there's nothing wrong with your hand!"

"Excuse me? Did you not just see me dripping blood all over the floor?"

"Well, if you'd just listened to me in the first place…"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Don't tell me to shut up!"

"Alright, I won't!" His eyes glitter with malice. "_Fuck off, _then!" His voice rises to a yell. "Fuck off to your precious job, since that's obviously the only thing you care about! Fuck off and leave me alone!

_"Fine!" _I shriek back, "Fine, if that's what you want, I will!"

"Go, then!"

I stare at him, my whole body rigid with rage. I have never hated him more than I do at this moment. More than I did at school when he was rubbing my face in it by snogging the face off Lavender every five minutes. More than I did that first term of first year when two months of mutual dislike resulted in him announcing loudly, in front of the whole class, "No wonder she hasn't got any friends!" No, _this_ is the moment. It's a good thing I haven't got my wand in my hand because the desire to cause him pain is very strong indeed.

"Fine, well, _actually_... I didn't mention this before because I wasn't sure I'd take it, but actually, it's a live-in job. So... fine. You want me to leave you alone, that's what I'll do. I'll write to them tomorrow and tell them I'll start in two weeks. That should be enough time to pack up all my things. You can spill whatever you want on the floor then. Now if you'll excuse me, my _precious job _is waiting..."

I push roughly past him before he can think of a reply, and leave him standing there in the kitchen, still clutching the bloody tea towel in his hand.

* * *

I hear his key turn in the lock and my stomach does a feeble back flip. He comes in and stops dead when he sees me sitting there. We look at one another in anguish.

"Hello," he says, quietly.

"Hello."

He stands there for a few seconds as if unsure of what to do next, then takes off his coat and hangs it over the back of the chair.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

I shake my head.

He hovers for a while longer, then gives up and goes into the kitchen. I sit there listening to the sound of the kettle boiling. After a couple of minutes he comes out again, empty-handed, and perches on the arm of the sofa, the opposite end to where I am sitting. More silence, then:

"What you said this morning..."

I look at him. "What about it?"

"Did you mean it?"

"Which part?"

He makes a frustrated sound. "The bit where you were going to go and live in Yorkshire, what else would I be talking about?"

"Of course I meant it."

He frowns. "Right. It's just..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

I call his bluff. "Why would I make up something like that?"

He shrugs helplessly. There is a long silence, and then he blurts out, "So you're really going to take the job then, are you?"

"That's what I said, yes."

"Oh."

I wait.

"Because I've been thinking... you must have known you'd have to go and live in Yorkshire when you applied for the job. It must have mentioned that bit in the advert. So you knew that, and you went for it anyway. Or maybe that's _why_ you did."

I stare at him, confused. My thoughtless lie is spiralling out of control. "What?"

He's getting into his stride now, his voice shaking with emotion. "Maybe that's what this is, maybe you wanted to leave anyway, and this is just an excuse."

"No, that's not -"

"Is there someone else?"

_"What?"_

"Have you met someone?"

_"No!"_

I am dumbfounded. How could he think such a thing? I thought he knew me, but if he thinks I'm actually capable of...

"Well, it's the only thing that makes sense. You've met someone and you're moving up there to be nearer him." His eyes widen. "You're moving in with him! That's what this is all about, isn't it? That's why you didn't tell me about the job interview! Oh, God, this explains _everything!" _

I can't believe it. "No, Ron, this is about me wanting to better myself by taking a job that just happens to be in Yorkshire, that's all. And I can't believe you actually think - is that what you really think of me? That I would cheat on you and then _lie_ about it to your _face?_ I thought you knew me better than that but obviously you don't! My _God!_ If that's what you think of me then we've got some serious problems much worse than me just taking this job!"

I grab my keys and slam from the flat, shaking with fury. How dare he? How dare he accuse me of... of... and to think I thought he was going to ask me to stay! Well, if that's what he truly thinks of me, then maybe I _should _leave. I only said it in anger, but I am sorely tempted right now. That would show him. That would _really_ give him something to think about.

* * *



"Hermione."

I don't look up. He clears his throat to get my attention

"Hermione."

"What do you _want_, Ron?"

"Could you just... put down your book for a minute?"

"I've got to finish this tonight, Ron, it's for work."

"One minute," he begs.

I glance deliberately at my watch and sigh loudly. "Alright, then. One minute. But that's all. I haven't got time for any more arguments."

"I don't want any more arguments either!"

"Well... good. That's a _start_, I suppose."

A long pause while he struggles to get the words out. I glance pointedly at my watch again.

"I don't understand!" he blurts.

"Yes, well, there are a lot of things you don't understand. If you could just narrow it down a bit that would be great."

He bites his lip. "Could you just – could you just hear me out without all the _fucking_ sarcasm, please?"

A jolt goes through me. I look away from him and down at my book, but the words on the page have become a meaningless blur.

"I don't understand why you didn't mention this was a live-in job four weeks ago. I don't understand why you even applied for a job in Yorkshire when you knew you'd have to move out, and what I _really_ don't understand is what the fuck I've done that made you want to move two hundred miles just to get away from me! I thought things were going alright between us, Hermione! I don't understand why you'd... if there _isn't _someone else..."

"There isn't."

"Then... why?"

"It's just the job," I croak, "It's a really good job, that's –"

"Yeah, I get it; it's a _really_ good job. Must be, if it's worth all _this_. What, are they making you the new Minister of Magic or something? 'Cos that's the only job I can imagine being important enough to – no, actually, there's _no_ job I can imagine being so wonderful that I would put you through what you've put me through this last month."

That gets my attention. "What _I've_ put _you_ through? Excuse me, you're not exactly blame-free in all of this, you know!"

_"Me? _What have _I_ done?"

"Oh, forget it. I haven't got time for this. I've got _work_ to do."

"Oh, big surprise! Imagine you putting your work before me!" He clutches at his chest in mock pain and staggers backwards slightly. "Wow, that almost _never_ happens!"

I narrow my eyes at him. "You know what, Ron?"

_"What?"_

"Every tiny little thing you say and do lately irritates the hell out of me."

I turn my back on him deliberately and slam open my book at a random page, pretending to be utterly engrossed in it until I hear his footsteps walk away.

* * *

"Oh,_ God_," Ginny sighs, "Have you two had a row?"

_"No,"_ I retort.

_"Yes,"_ mutters Ron.

Ginny laughs. "Well, if you can't even agree on whether you've had a row or not..."

Ron barely speaks for the next hour and the others seem to know not to ask him anything, although I see both of them shoot him concerned glances every so often. Finally though, Ginny snaps.

"Oh, for God's sake, Ron, cheer up! We've come out for dinner with you, the least you can do is_ talk_ to us. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can't be that bad!"

Ron gives a short, bitter laugh. "You reckon?"

Ginny and Harry exchange looks.

"Ignore him," I tell them, "He's just sulking."

Ron turns on me with a disbelieving expression.

"What?"

"Oh, you're talking to me now?"

"Why don't you tell them what we're arguing about, Hermione?

"Keep your voice down, please, Ron, we're in a restaurant, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, shut up!"

"Ron," warns Ginny.

He rounds on her immediately. "Don't "Ron" me! Why don't you ask her? Go on, ask her!"

"You're showing yourself up," I tell him, my face burning with anger now.

"Oh… _piss off!"_

He gets unsteadily to his feet, throws a handful of coins down on the table, mutters an apology to Harry and Ginny, and storms out of the restaurant. They stare at me, shocked.

"Hermione?" demands Ginny, "What's going on?"

"It's nothing. Everything's fine."

"Well, it obviously_ isn't_ -"

"I've just got a new job and Ron is behaving like a child about it, that's all."

Harry frowns. "You've got a new job?"

"Yes, and you'd think that would be cause for celebration -"

Harry and Ginny exchange confused looks.

"But... that's _good_, isn't it?" says Harry, slowly, "Why would Ron be annoyed about it?"

I shrug, and Ginny, who is watching me intently, says quietly, "Because there's more to it than that. Isn't there, Hermione?"

"Well… it's in Yorkshire, so obviously, I need to move -"

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

_"Why?" _

I don't know what to say to that. I don't know the answer myself.

Harry looks more confused than ever. "So he's upset because you asked him to up sticks and move to Yorkshire?"

I feel my face growing red. Ginny is still watching me. She always could see right through me where Ron was concerned.

"No…" she says slowly, realisation dawning, "He's upset because she_ didn't_ ask him. That's right, isn't it, Hermione?"

My silence seems to tell them all they need to know. Harry gapes at me. Ginny stands up with a heavy sigh and pulls on her coat.

"I'm going to find Ron. If you're not here when I come back I'll see you at home, Harry."

She strides off without even a second glance back at me.

"Hermione?" Harry says, weakly, "It's not true, is it?"

"No, of course not."

"You're not really splitting up, are you?"

I am confused myself now as to what is happening. Now that's it's out there, in the public domain, it all suddenly seems so much more real. I feel slightly sick. "I don't know," I admit.

"So you're_ not_ moving to Yorkshire?"

"Well, no, I_ am_ -"

"I don't believe this."

"Harry -"

He stares down at his half-eaten meal, then pushes the plate away. "But why would you… I mean… You_ can't_ split up, you just_ can't!_ You and Ron…" He tails, off, lost for words.

Harry's disappointment is more than I can take. "It's not all my fault!" I sob, no longer caring that I am making a scene. Like the others, I jump up from my seat, throw some money on the table, grab my coat, and rush from the restaurant, tears filling my eyes. Outside I scan the street quickly for a sign of Ron or Ginny, but I can't find either of them in the Friday evening crowds. I didn't expect this. That they would take his side. That they would blame me for what has happened. It isn't my fault. It isn't my _fault!_

* * *

**One Week Later**

I've begun to dread the sound of his key in the lock, for the inevitable arguments or silent misery that ensue when we are both here together. And other times, when we are lying in bed not touching, with our backs to each other, there is an almost unbearable longing. Just to reach out and touch. To have some sort of connection. Does he love me? Do I love him? I don't know anymore. We must do, I suppose. There must still be love there, but we've lost track of it. We've withdrawn into ourselves. We exist in the same physical space - although less and less these days - but we no longer exist as a single entity. We're not a couple, we're two people who share a flat, breathe the same air, that's all.

We go to bed at different times so the one who goes earlier can pretend to be asleep. I haven't had so many early nights since we first moved in together, and that was for an entirely different reason. I've started working late at the office. Ron has started staying out late too. I don't know where he goes; I haven't asked. I doubt its work. To be honest, I don't really care. On those nights when he isn't here I am just grateful for the time to myself. Not to think - I'm too mentally and emotionally exhausted for that - just to sit alone in the dark and feel nothing. No anger, no resentment, no fear, no hatred, just a comforting numbness. And slowly, it seeps into my consciousness that maybe being alone wouldn't be so awful. That maybe it might be a relief.

Maybe that's what we need. A bit of distance between us. Some time to calm down. A couple of weeks apart to save our relationship. It's a sacrifice I have to make.

If I stay, I don't think we can survive this. If I stay we'll end up killing each other. If I stay I'll end up hating him.



If I go... maybe he'll realise how much he needs and misses me. If I go, he'll have to come after me.

* * *

"Don't bite your nails!"

He looks up, startled, and down again at his fingers, as though he hadn't realised he was doing it. "Sorry," he says, automatically.

"You always are."

"What does_ that_ mean?"

"Oh, you know what it means!"

"Herm-"

"You're always_ sorry_, but you never do anything_ about_ it, do you? Nothing ever changes and I'm sick of it!"

He just stands there, with that miserable look on his face, not saying anything, not arguing back, and it makes me even more furious.

"And don't just stand there, why don't you_ say_ something?"

"What's the point?" he says, dully.

"The point? The_ point?"_ My voice is almost a shriek now. "The point is you not even trying, the point is you've just given up, you don't even seem to want to_ try_ to make me change my mind! The point is I'm increasingly starting to wonder if you even_ care!_"

I am practically begging him to tell me otherwise, but he still won't, or can't, he just stares at the floor. I burst into tears and slam into the bedroom where I throw myself onto the bed and cry and cry. He doesn't come to see if I am alright.

* * *

He comes into the bedroom as I am taking off my boots after another long, exhausting day at work and hovers in the doorway, with the air of someone who has been building up to this all day.

I sigh. Might as well get this over with. _"What?"_

"Why are you doing this, Hermione? Why are you leaving?"

I can only shrug in reply. I have no answer to give.

"You love me," he says, and I can hear the pleading in his voice, wanting, needing me to confirm it. I hate the pleading, and the tense look on his face, like a child preparing himself for a blow to 

the head. And at that moment, I _want_ to hit him. He's always been like this. Prone to self-pity, blaming himself for things that are nothing to do with him, almost willing it to be his fault, making it all about _him_. Oh yes, he is an absolute _master _of the guilt-trip.

"I hate it when you act like this."

He visibly recoils in shock. "What?"

"Feeling sorry for yourself is not an attractive quality, you know."

"I don't - I'm just asking a question!"

"It always has to be about _you_, doesn't it? Why do you find it so hard to imagine I might have things going on in my life that have nothing to do with you?"

"What things?" he demands, immediately.

"You don't really care, Ron, or you'd have asked me before now. You shouldn't need prompting."

"I'm not a mind-reader!"

"No, you're my boyfriend; you're supposed to pay attention! You're supposed to notice these things! Or am I not allowed to have a life outside of you now?"

"What life? What _things_, Hermione?"

Of course, I have no answer. There _are_ no other things in my life outside of him - at least, nothing that he doesn't know about already. But Ron takes my silence as confirmation of his worst fears.

"I was right, wasn't I? There _is_ someone else."

"Okay, yes! You're right! There _is_ someone else! I'm having a wild affair! Because it couldn't possibly be that I just want to make something of my life! It couldn't possibly be that my career is actually important to me! No, it must be that I'm running away to meet my secret lover! In fact, I haven't got a new job at all, I'm just going to live off my rich lover and spend all day in bed with him, having mad passionate sex in all sorts of incredible positions! I love it when he takes me from behind over the kitchen table! I just can't get enough! Oh, God! Oh, _yes! Harder!"_

I realise immediately that I have gone too far. A nervous high-pitched little laugh escapes from my lips, and I clap my hand to my mouth in shock.

The look on Ron's face is thunderous. For a second I think he is going to hit me, but instead he just stands there with his hands bunched into tight fists by his sides and opens and closes his mouth several times before he can find the words.

"You know, sometimes, Hermione, I really _hate_ you..."

I am too stunned to speak. Unbidden tears come to my eyes. "You don't mean that."

He just stares at me blankly, no guilt, no sympathy in his eyes. And then he shrugs. A gesture of indifference, as though he feels nothing for me. Ron, who always felt_ everything._

"Ron -"

He simply turns and walks out of the room, and seconds later I hear the front door slam behind him.

I look down and realise my hands are shaking.

* * *

I curl up into the foetal position and moan softly. I ache all over.

"What's the matter with you?" he says, unsympathetically.

"Period pains."

He gives a small derisory laugh. "I suppose that means I'm not going to get any action again tonight, then?"

I kick out my foot behind me as hard as I can and he yelps with pain.

"What was that for?"

"You. Being a git."

He mutters something I can't quite hear, but I'm too exhausted to ask him to repeat it. A wave of pain courses through my body.

"Can you see if there's any pain potion in the bathroom?"

"Here's an idea. If you want people to do things for you, don't kick them in the leg."

"_Please_, Ron, it really hurts…"

He gets up off the bed with a sigh and I hear him padding across the room and out into the hallway. He's back almost immediately: "We haven't got any left."

I moan with pain and frustration and he climbs back into bed again.

"Can you go to the late night chemist and get me some Nurofen?"

"Fuck's_ sake_, Hermione…"

"It's only round the corner. It'll take you five minutes."

"I'm in my pyjamas!"

"You once Apparated three hundred miles just to buy me my favourite sandwich."

"Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. Things change."

"Well, could you at least rub my back for me? You used to like rubbing my back."

_"Fine,_" he says, a note of vindictive triumph in his voice, "I'll_ go_ to the bloody chemist!"

He gets out of bed and I hear him pulling on clothes and then rooting around for change and slamming out of the flat. Tears roll down my cheeks and dampen the pillow. He can't even bring himself to rub my back for me. He'd rather go outside in the dark and cold than have any kind of 

physical contact with me at all. Hormones and exhaustion send me to sleep and I wake up minutes later to find him shaking me awake, rainwater dripping onto my face from his hair.

"Wake up! I didn't get soaked through so you could have a nice sleep, you know!"

"Sorry. Did you get the -"

He practically throws it at me. "Here."

"Thank you. Can you get me a glass of water?"

"_Fine._ Anything else you want me to do while I'm at it? Maybe I can make you a three course meal or do your washing?"

He stomps out of the room and returns with a glass of water which he slams down on the bedside table so hard that half the water sloshes out of the glass.

"Thank you."

"Yeah well, you just remember this when you're living up in Yorkshire on your own and there's no-one to go to the chemist for you in the middle of the night. Assuming you_ are_ living on your own..."

I am too tired to have this argument again. I sit up and take a couple of pills and wash them down with some of the water. He stands there watching me for a few seconds, then gives up and starts pulling off his wet clothes in the corner of the room. He'd put his jeans on over his pyjamas and now the hems of his pyjama trousers are wet through. He swears loudly, pulls off a shoe and kicks it clean across the room as hard as he can, where it bounces off the wall with a thwack and makes me jump, then he sinks down in the chair and buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I look away from him and down into my glass. This is awful. I turn on my side with my back to him, pull the duvet up to my chin and close my eyes tightly. I don't hear him come to bed.

* * *

I wake up some time later and feel, with a sudden clarity of thought, that this is the decisive moment; this is the night that decides if there is any kind of future between us. I can't stand this another second, and if we can't sort it out, then we might as well give up. I'll just have to carry out my threat and leave. But oh God, I don't want to leave, and I'm ninety per cent certain he doesn't want me to leave either. I just need to know for sure. I have to ask him, do you want me to stay? If he says yes, then we can get through this, I'm sure of it. If he says no, at least I'll know, at least I can just get on with things and leave and try and start my new life alone…

"Ron..."

No response.

"Are you awake?"

He doesn't stir.

I shake his shoulder gently. "Ron!"

_"What?" _he says, sharply.

"Were you awake?"

"What do you _want_, Hermione?"

"Don't snap at me!"

"Well, don't wake me up in the middle of the night to ask me stupid questions, then!"

"I just want us to talk."

He moans loudly. "It's half past one in the_ fucking_ morning!"

"Why are you so angry with me?"

"Oh, I dunno, let's think, maybe it's because I've just been woken up in the middle of the fucking night to have another fucking argument! As though we don't have enough when we're awake..."

"I don't want an argument any more than you do, I just want to talk."

"Hermione. Everything we say to each other lately ends in an argument. Why the hell should_ this_ be any different?"

"I just want to ask you something."

He sighs and I hear the soft thud of him banging his head repeatedly into the pillow. "It's the only way you're ever going to let me get any sleep, isn't it?_ Go_ on then, if you must."

I take a deep breath. "Do you want me to turn down this job?"

He doesn't answer at first, and then he says, quietly, "That's a trick question, right?"

I wait for a proper answer.

"I know how this one works," he says, angrily, "I say yes and I'm some sort of control freak boyfriend who wants you to stay at home and clean the house and have my dinner on the table when I come from work. Either that or I'm all resentful and jealous that you've got some fantastic job offer and I haven't, or I'm worried you'll meet someone smarter and more ambitious than me. That's if you haven't already. So, do I want you to turn down this job?_ No_._ Take_ the job, fuck off to Yorkshire, I don't_ care_ anymore."

He turns away from me and yanks the duvet roughly over his head.

I wanted him to say yes. I wanted him to ask me to stay. We've argued so much and I realised that I never even asked him that one simple question. If he'd just said that one word, yes, or stay, I'd have stayed. In my head there is another version of this scene where I ask him, "Do you want me to turn down this job?" meaning, "Do you want me to stay?" and he says yes. "Then I'll stay." And we hold each other, and tell each other we are sorry, and in the morning it's a new day and everything's alright again, we aren't killing each other, and he doesn't hate me.

* * *

He's not coming home. I thought he was just saying it to spite me, but he's really not coming home. It's our _anniversary_.

Four days now until I'm supposed to leave. It still doesn't seem real. I stand dazedly in the living room and stare at the neatly stacked pile of boxes and three blank walls of empty, dusty bookshelves. I never expected it would go this far. I want to cry, but I'm too exhausted to summon any tears. I'm not sure there are enough tears left in me to ever cry again.

He'll ask me to stay, of course he will. He won't let things get to that point, I'm sure of it. He'll ask me to stay, and everything will be alright.

000

* * *

_(deep breath!)_

* * *

**Two Years Later**

It's been our anniversary for an hour and twenty six minutes. I don't know what made me wake up, but as soon as I looked at the clock I knew. I can hear the slow rhythmic sound of Ron's breathing beside me.

Things have... things have sort of been on hold. We haven't spoken about what happened on Wednesday night; we've barely spoken at all, in fact. Our entire conversation in the 36 hours between when I left for work on Thursday morning and when I got home again tonight consisted of the following conversation:

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Mmph."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like death."

"Are you still throwing up?"

"Mmph."

"Do you want a glass of water or anything?"

"Nargh."

"Alright, I'll let you sleep. Hope you feel better."

"Mmph."

Ron hasn't been to work for two days. I offered to take Thursday off too, but he said now he'd cut his hair short he didn't really need anyone to hold it out of his eyes while he was being sick anymore and anyway, he'd prefer to vomit without an audience, thank you very much. Of course, that wasn't what I'd been thinking about at all, I had just pictured myself coming home on the Thursday evening to an empty flat and a note. Or not even a note. After all, he'd already said everything he needed to say the previous night. About how maybe this is a terrible mistake and maybe it would be better if he just went home. But when I came back from work - pushing open the bedroom door with a kind of sick apprehension - he was still here, fast asleep in my bed, looking as though he'd hardly moved since I left that morning.

I've had a lot of time over the last two days to really think about things. Maybe he's right. Maybe some time apart is what we need. And I am afraid of admitting this to him, in case - well, in case we are wrong. In case it turns out that our problems run so deep we just can't get past them, that this is unsavable. Just wanting it to work and wishing things could go back to normal isn't enough. I am pretty certain that if he hadn't been ill he wouldn't be here now. If it hadn't been for that dodgy saveloy...

He still hasn't said anything. About today, I mean.

It doesn't really matter. I don't really mind. It's only another day, after all.

* * *

I wake in the darkness some time later and get up to go the bathroom. Still half-asleep, I stumble into the front room and nearly jump out of my skin. Ron is sitting hunched and alone in an armchair in the dim morning light, staring into space. I hadn't even realised he wasn't in bed beside me.

"Ron?"

He lifts his head and gives me a sad sort of smile.

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. "Do you know what day it is today?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh, right, 'cos, you know… you hadn't said anything, so…"

"I didn't know if you wanted to celebrate it or not."

"Well, I didn't _not_ want to celebrate it!" he snaps back.

I stare at him, a slow smile spreading across my face. "I thought you'd forgotten..."

"I thought _you'd_ forgotten!" he retorts.

"How could you think that?"

_"Well_," he says in a tone of righteous indignation, "I _deliberately_ asked you if you wanted to go and see my parents today, you know, like a _test_, and you didn't say _anything_ about it being our anniversary. You didn't even _mention_ it."

I can't help myself; it's so ridiculous I just start laughing and can't stop. Ron stares at me incredulously.

"What's so funny?"

"Us. We're a couple of idiots. I didn't say anything because _you_ didn't say anything. I thought that either you'd forgotten or you just didn't think it was worth celebrating anymore. You said - you said it wasn't nine years, it was only seven." The memory stops the laughter dead in my throat.

He frowns. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"When did I say that?"

_He doesn't even remember saying it. I really am an idiot. _

"In the pub last weekend. Anna asked us how long we'd been together."

"It would have been ten years next year," he says, dully. "That would have been pretty impressive, wouldn't it? Something worth celebrating."

"It still can be."

"But it won't be ten years anymore, will it? It'll only be eight."

I go and sit down heavily in the chair beside him and take his hands in mine.

"Ron, believe me, if this time next year you're still here with me, it'll be something worth celebrating."

"You don't think we'll make it?"

"I hope we will. I really hope so. Because I've tried being without you, Ron, and I can't do it. I need you."

He doesn't say anything, just bites his lip and continues to stare at the floor.

"What did you do last year?" he asks, ignoring my heartfelt words. Okay, so he doesn't want to have that kind of conversation. Fine.

"Not much. Worked late, didn't get home until gone midnight. I think I didn't want to be here on my own."

He nods. "Did you think about me?"

"Of course I did."

"But you didn't think about coming to see me, or writing to me, or anything?"

"I thought about it, yes. Did you?"

"I didn't think much about anything, to be honest. It was shortly after the, uh, Luna incident, so I was basically hibernating under my quilt for a fortnight."

I squeeze his hand and he pulls it away and sits on it, frowning at the memory and staring down at his knees.

"What made you get up again? Harry?"

"Actually, no. Not that he didn't try. Even threw a bucket of water over me once." He gives a mirthless laugh. "No, it was Ginny. We had a long talk one night and I promised her I'd at least _try_ and sort myself out."

"Did you tell her about Luna?"

"I didn't tell _anyone_ about Luna."

"Why not?"

"Well, it wasn't exactly something I was proud of. Did you tell anyone about Jeff?"

I shake my head. "It wasn't exactly something I was proud of either."

We sit there in silence for a few minutes.

"You should try and sort things out with Ginny, you know. She's only looking out for you."

"I know."

"It'll make it easier if she's on our side."

"I _know_."

"Come back to bed, Ron. It's half past six."

I stand up and hold my hand out to him, but he makes no attempt to get up from the chair.

"Ron?"

"Yeah, well, since we're up..." He looks a little embarrassed. "I, er, got you a present."

_Oh, no. _

"Oh, Ron, you shouldn't have, I didn't get you anything!"

"That's alright. I didn't know if I should get you anything either. Didn't want to seem too desperate or anything." He gives a rueful smile. "Anyway, I kept the receipt. I figured I could always take it back if we didn't last the whole two weeks." He gestures towards the bedroom. "It's in my bag."

He watches me go into the bedroom to where his rucksack is propped up in the corner, overspilling with clothes.

"It's in the yellow carrier bag," he calls out, "Sorry I didn't wrap it."

I pull out the small yellow bag and take it back into the front room. "I feel awful now. I just thought… you might think it was too soon or something."

He shrugs. "It probably is, but hey. Anyway, wait 'til you see it before you start feeling all guilty. You might hate it."

"I'm sure I won't."

He watches me open the little yellow bag and pull out something made of a dark, soft material and hold it up in front of me.

_Oh. _

It's a dress. He bought me a _dress_. Navy blue cotton with a pattern of tiny little brown and pink daisies. Pretty, but not _too_ pretty. The kind of dress I might have bought myself if - well, if I wore dresses. I get a lump in my throat and can hardly speak.

"It's a dress..."

"Well, it's not a puppy," he says, dryly.

I am still slightly overcome. "I didn't get _you_ a present, though!"

"Well, I wasn't going to get you anything either, but I was just walking past the shop and I saw it in the window." He frowns. "You can probably still take it back if you don't like it."

"It's lovely."

"It was in the sale."

"It's really nice."

I hold it against my body and he watches me apprehensively.

"It might not be the right size. You're still a twelve, right? I remembered you used to be a twelve, but they only had one left in that size and…" He tails off. "I mean, you look the same," he finishes, awkwardly.

I drop the dress on the chair beside me and lean down and hug his shoulders tightly and plant a kiss on the top of his head.

"It's perfect."

He smiles slightly. "You can try it on if you like."

"Yes. Yes, of course. I'll try it on now."

I pick the dress up again and examine it more closely.

"It's backless," I observe, more to myself than anything, "I won't be able to wear a bra with it."

He gives a cracked grin. "Well, then, that's _my _present."

I laugh, despite myself. "Idiot!"

In my bedroom I pull off my t-shirt and pull the dress on over my head. It feels strange not to be wearing a bra with it, as though I'm naked under the dress, especially with bare feet and unbrushed hair. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and survey myself. My hair has that just-got-out-of-bed look that is supposed to be so sexy and fashionable when worn by models, but on me just looks - well, as though I've just got out of bed. The dress, though, is perfect. The halterneck gives me a cleavage that usually I can't manage without the assistance of an industrial-strength push-up bra, and the wide skirt flares out to my knees and makes my waist look tiny and my legs long. I couldn't have chosen better myself, in fact. How can someone who hates shopping as much as he does have managed to buy something that fits me so well?



I _must _do something about my hair. I grab a hairband from the top of the dresser and tie it back loosely. Yes, that's better. I am two paces towards the door before Ron's voice in my head stops me in my tracks, and I turn back to the mirror and scrutinise my reflection, frowning. It's better - but it's not _me_. I pull my hair loose again, then, after a moment's hesitation, I slip out of my knickers as well, so it is just me, and the dress. It feels right, somehow. Pure. Not naughty at all. Well, maybe just a _little_ bit naughty. I smile to myself, take one last look in the mirror, smooth down the front of the dress, and walk back out to where Ron is waiting for me.

He swallows hard and stares at me, and I am pleasurably reminded of the way he looked at me the first time he saw me naked.

"You look incredible."

I feel a warm flush rising up my body. How can he still make me blush after all these years?

"I don't," I protest automatically.

"Says the girl who got asked to the ball by an International Quidditch player..."

I give him my most withering look - we've had this particular conversation at _least _a million times - and he puts his hands up in mock-defence and laughs. "Okay, okay, I was kidding!"

"It was eleven years ago! I was fifteen! And as you well know, I'd have said no to him in a second if you'd asked me instead!"

He smiles. "Yeah, well, I was rubbish, wasn't I? But that's not my point, anyway - I just meant, fine, don't believe _me_, obviously _I_ don't know what the hell I'm talking about. But at least believe _him_. He can have any girl he wants and he chose _you_."

"Yes, and _I_ chose _you_."

He reddens slightly but looks pleased. "Must be my excellent taste in frocks."

I shoot him an exasperated look. "I'm trying to pay you a compliment; could you at least _try_ and be serious, just for one minute?"

He grins. "Seriously, you look gorgeous."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We smile somewhat dopily at one another.

"Am I allowed to say _"Happy Anniversary"_?"

He pretends to think about it for a couple of seconds. "Um... _yeah_... I think that would be okay, actually."

"Well, then, _"Happy Anniversary"_, Ron."

I feel suddenly giddy and girly and twirl my skirts at him, and he grabs me by the arm and pulls me down into his lap and kisses me, mumbling something which might be "_Happy Anniversary_, _Hermione_", but which could just as easily be "Damn, I've left the iron on."

"Ron…" I mumble happily some minutes later, "What are we going to do today?"

"Dunno." He kisses my neck. "This is good..."

"But it's our anniversary! If we _are_ celebrating it - we _are_ celebrating it, aren't we?"

He nods.

"Well, then we should do something special. Go out for the day or something."

"What did you have in mind? And please don't say the zoo..."

"I don't know, maybe we could go for a walk on the moors or something. It looks like it's going to be a nice day."

He considers the idea. "It's a bit early to be thinking about exercise, to be honest." He chuckles. "Well, _that_ kind of exercise, anyway…" He stretches his arms luxuriously behind his head and yawns widely. "You know I can't ma-a-ake any kind of decision before breakfast..."

An idea suddenly strikes me that is so wonderful I jump off his lap in excitement. "We could go away for the weekend! Go and stay in a nice little B & B somewhere in the country! If we went this morning we could be there in time for lunch! _Oh! _Wait! Seeing as we're up already - we could go _now_ and be there in time for breakfast! We'd only need to pack a few overnight things and a change of clothes! We can come back Sunday night!"

He shakes his head gravely. "No."

"What?"

"We can't."

I feel dizzy. "You... don't want to?"

"It's not that. I've got Quidditch tomorrow morning. I'll have to be back for that, won't I?"

I'm so relieved I actually shout out loud and make him jump. So we could still go away somewhere? We could just come back tomorrow morning before the match?"

He looks amused at my wild excitement. "Guess we could, then."

I grab him and hug him and kiss him all over his face and he laughs delightedly.

"Sod it," he says, "Let's go and get some breakfast..."

* * *

_(Author's note: Because... the story of what really happened 2 years earlier kept begging to be written, because I wanted to send you down the rapids before you reached calmer waters, but mostly because misery is fun to write, damn it. The last paragraph was my original ending, way back when this story was only going to be 5 chapters long, but I realised they had far too many outstanding issues to wrap it all up neatly with a bow after only two weeks back together. So I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me for another four chapters yet. Will there be a happy ending? You'll have to wait and see! Thanks for reading and especially, thanks for all your lovely reviews, it's thanks to you I keep going, even when the end sometimes seems further away than ever. Keep reading (and reviewing!) in the free world, and Happy Easter! PB x)_

* * *


	10. Chapter 10: The Dinner Party

_Firstly: a whinge: I know for a fact there are hundreds of people following this story, but only about 20 of you ever bother to review. You must know how many hours, days, weeks, and months of care and hard work goes into writing this; please, is it really too much to ask that you take two minutes to show your appreciation with a review? I don't expect an essay, just a few words or a couple of sentences from you would really make my day. So sort yourselves out, you lazy sods! Right, whinge over, here's Chapter 10..._

* * *

**Chapter Ten: The Dinner Party**

---

I am walking home from work, stretching my legs and enjoying the fresh air after a long day at the office. It is a beautiful late Spring evening, still plenty of warmth in the day, blossom on the trees, a light breeze stirring the leaves and my hair. In less than twenty minutes I'll be home, with the whole glorious weekend stretching invitingly out in front of me like an empty glass waiting to have wine poured into it.

---

The last two weeks have been wonderful. I feel like I'm falling in love with him all over again. Little things he says and does that remind me - Oh, yes,_ that's _why I fell in love with you, that's why I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. I have hardly ever thought about Anna, but then I have been helped by the fact that by a peculiar mix of design and circumstance, there have been no more post-match pub visits for the last two weekends. The first Sunday because we were away for the weekend for our anniversary, so he just went down to London for the match, then Apparated straight back to the B&B to be with me. (Without even having a shower first – I didn't mind_ too_ much…)

---

The whole weekend was just perfect, in fact. Going away turned out to be one of the best ideas I've ever had. We found this wonderful little bed & breakfast right on the moors, so we only had to step outside our front door and we could walk for miles over hills and moorland without seeing another soul for hours on end. It was still muddy after weeks of rain, but the sun was shining, the sky was blue and cloudless, and it was even warm enough for Ron to catch the sun a little. We took a picnic and ate it sitting on a rock overlooking a wide valley; ham sandwiches, crisps, Scotch eggs, grapes, and chocolate flapjacks. Ron bought the food; I suspect the grapes were a concession to me. There's something about eating outdoors that makes every mouthful seem especially delicious, even the Scotch eggs, which I eventually gave in and ate, much to Ron's delight. Well, exercise makes you hungry!

---

It makes you tired, too; we were so exhausted after all that walking and fresh air we were tucked up in bed - asleep! - by half past ten. And it was so _quiet_. Waking up on Sunday morning with only the sounds of birdsong and the occasional distant bleat of a sheep to trouble our ears, was just bliss. We had originally planned to go back after breakfast, but we just couldn't bear to have to go home so soon, so we booked in to stay the Sunday night as well, and came back for work on Monday morning instead. While he was at Quidditch, I went on my own to visit the Bronte Parsonage, which was absolutely fascinating. It would have been more romantic if he had been there with me, of course, living out my Wuthering Heights fantasies, but you can't have everything. Actually, if I'm honest, Heathcliff was never really my type. Too macho. No sense of humour. All that brooding and chest-beating would get boring very quickly, I suspect. And I always thought Cathy was a bit of a whiner. Now, Jane Eyre; the smart, plain girl who makes good, falls in love with her boss, then has him fall in love with her right back... that's much more my kind of story!

---

Actually, it's probably best that he didn't come. He'd have been bored within minutes, and it was very busy, full of coach parties of tourists and numerous little Ye Olde Tea Shoppe-type establishments trying to wring every last pound out of them. They reminded me a bit of the Olde Ottery Tea Room in Ron's village that we used to visit when we were teenagers. That certainly didn't have doilies and proper china cups and saucers, and real flowers in little vases on each table. It had fluorescent yellow hand-written and misspelt signs in the window ("Pentioner's Specil £3.25"), and was run by a real harridan of a woman who threw us out once for giggling too much.

---

_Last_ Sunday happened to be his dad's birthday, so he had to go down to Devon immediately after the match for a big family meal; the first time he's been there and seen all of them since we got back together. I wasn't invited, of course. Our sole discussion on the subject involved me asking him afterwards if he'd had a good time, and him saying it was "Alright." I didn't pursue the matter, but I can't pretend I wasn't a little disappointed.

---

Still, I can't complain too much. After all, I did_ tell_ him I wasn't bothered about seeing his family. I just hoped he might realise I didn't really mean it. I suppose at least he wasn't with_ her_. And, even better, the Quidditch season finishes a week on Sunday, so that means - ta-dah! - no more Anna for the next three months! I can't tell you how light and happy that makes me feel._ No more Anna_. Three months is long enough for him to forget her and for me to help remind him that it's me he really wants. Me that he loves. Long enough for everything to get back to normal. Maybe even long enough for him to start to forgive me. But I feel more positive now than I have done for a long time. With Anna out of the picture, I really believe we can make this work. No distractions. Just the two of us, working things out on our own.

---

It's not just the lack of Quidditch (and slutty Seekers!) to distract him that gives me such hope, either. It's all the things we can do, all the places we can go, now the weather's warmer. Going away for our anniversary really inspired me. Can you believe, for example, that I've been living in Yorkshire all this time and I've never been to Haworth to see the Bronte Parsonage? Just shows how not myself I've been. I can't remember looking forward to the Summer more, in fact. Even when I was at school I didn't especially look forward to the school holidays, that's the kind of hopeless bookworm_ I_ was!

---

I have also thought – although it's still too early to suggest it – about maybe the two of us taking a proper holiday together, somewhere in the sun. I haven't had a day off in two years; they can hardly begrudge me a fortnight in the Med. I really think that's what we need. Two weeks away from everything, everyone. All the pressures of home. A kind of honeymoon, I suppose. What I would really like is for us to go travelling for a few months. I have quite a bit of money saved up; enough for both of us. Ron would never let me pay for him, of course, so there's no point in even suggesting it, at least, not yet. Maybe next year. The very fact that I can even think about next year shows you how far we've come in the last two weeks.

---

He has started to drop little hints about the future into the conversation too. Tentatively, to see how I will react, whether I will say no.

"So, I was talking to this guy at work, he lives in Gloucestershire and Apparates into work every morning. Says he doesn't miss London at all..."

"That's a cool dog. I've always wanted a dog. Of course, you really need a_ garden_..."

I hear him, and I know what he wants, and I think that's what I'm going to have to do, if I want this to work. I am being tested. I don't blame him, but sometimes a flicker of doubt crosses my mind as to how the balance of power has shifted in our relationship and how this will affect us long-term. He gets the nice little house in the country and the garden and the dog, and I get him. That's the deal. It's still too soon to talk about this properly or make any unalterable decisions like properly moving in together, too soon to make any serious commitment. But maybe it's what we need. A new beginning somewhere else. Somewhere with no memories for either of us, good or bad.

---

It's funny how quickly everything has just gone back to normal. Or, at least, it must look that way on the surface. But there's still this underlying tension. Things will be going along nicely for a while and then - bam! - we'll remember. I had to go into work early for a meeting the other day, and he was still in bed, and as I kissed him goodbye I told him, "You're very hard to leave, you know that?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew. I saw him flinch and the pain in his eyes, and I wished I could unsay it.

---

We're trying, though. Maybe we're trying a bit too hard. One day at a time is the only way. We try to keep it light, we try not to bring up anything that has happened, but sometimes these little cracks appear. It's like when you break a vase and you glue it back together again, and it looks good as new, but it's weaker than before. The cracks are still there, even if you can't see them. It's fragile, and all it takes is one little knock and the whole thing could break apart, and this time you can't fix it. I can almost see those cracks running along the ground underneath us, like faultlines._ Can_ we repair this or is it too damaged? Is there going to be a time, next week, next month, next year, where he's on one side and I'm on the other, and what was just a hairline crack is now as wide and uncrossable as the Grand Canyon?

---

We've started saying things like, "Remember when we used to…?" and "I used to love it when you…" Everything is divided into then, and now. Our old life and this new one, for however long it lasts. I used to be in no doubt. I just knew -_ we_ just knew - that we would be together for the rest of our lives. And of course I still want that, hope for it, desperately. The thought that it might not happen… We talk about our life before as though it's all in the past. Maybe we're different people now. I hope that we have both realised we can't be without each other. I used to - _used to!_ - take it for granted that he knew I would never leave him, but I did, and now he doesn't know that anymore._ I_ don't even know that anymore.

---

When it's bad I can't see a future for us, I just see everything unravelling again, him leaving, never to return, my future alone, trying to pick up the pieces. When it's good I want everything to happen at once: let's get married, let's have children, let's get a house together; one with a garden, let's move to Devon, let's get a dog! And I know that part of that desire is wanting to catch up on the time we've wasted being apart, but mostly it's because I desperately don't want him to leave, and all of those things are extra reasons for him to stay. I'm not sure if I'm reason enough anymore, on my own.

---

But the doubts are getting less and less. I am_ happy_, for the first time in as long as I can remember. I have_ hope_. The sun is shining, it's the weekend, and Ron will be at home waiting for me. And why the hell am I walking home when I could Apparate there in three seconds and be in his arms?

---

* * *

---

"Ron!" I call automatically, as I walk into the front room and put down my bags, "I'm home!"

The kitchen door is slammed quickly shut and Ron's panicky voice yells out, "Don't come in!"

"Don't be silly, what's going on?"

"Nothing!"

"Well, let me in, then!"

He opens the door and I can't help laughing. He's quite red in the face and covered with flour and wearing a red and white striped apron he must have borrowed from someone else, because I certainly don't possess such a thing.

"You're cooking?"

He gives a sheepish little smile. "Um... yeah. It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Well, it's certainly that. Did you leave work early?"

"Took the afternoon off."

"You took the afternoon off!"

"Yeah, had to do the shopping and that."

"Just to make dinner for me? That's so sweet!"

"Yeah. Um... look, don't freak out or anything, but... I sort of invited a guest..."

"Not Anna?" I ask faintly.

He shakes his head. "Harry..."

I am delighted. "Oh, great! I haven't seen Harry for w-"

"And, um, Ginny..."

I don't know whether to be relieved or horrified. This brings up a whole new set of potential problems for the evening ahead.

"I wish you'd given me a bit of notice."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just thought you might..."

"Say no?"

"Well..._ yeah_," he admits.

"I can't believe Ginny's actually coming here."

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up, she still might not."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I left Harry in charge of that, didn't I? He hasn't really got back to me yet."

"You didn't even ask her yourself?"

He shrugs. "I thought Harry might do a better job."

I sigh. "Ron, you're her brother, you should have asked her. She'd be doing this for_ you_, not Harry."

"I've been busy," he says, evasively.

"What did Harry say anyway? Did he think it was a good idea?"

"Well, he didn't really_ say_ anything. I sent him a note at work on Wednesday, and he sent one back saying he'd do his best. I'm sure he'd have sent an owl if they weren't coming," he adds, hopefully.

I refrain from pointing out that perhaps he might also have sent an owl if they_ were_ coming. Instead I glance around at my flour-covered kitchen.

"So what are you cooking?"

"Chicken pie. Ginny's favourite."

"Sounds lovely. From your mum's recipe?"

"Of course."

"Have you ever cooked it before?"

"Um..." he mumbles, flushing slightly.

"You don't think that might be a tad ambitious?"

"Oh, ye of little faith! It'll be fine!"

I'm not sure who he's trying to convince, him or me.

"And anyway," he continues, brightly, "If it isn't, we can always go to the chippy."

"And what's for pudding?"

"Who said anything about pudding?"

"Ron. You're a Weasley."

He laughs. "Yeah, alright. Apple pie. Also -"

"Ginny's favourite," I finish for him. Something occurs to me. "So... basically, we're having two pies?"

He shrugs. "She likes pies."

_Faultless logic as usual_.

He shows me a Sainsburys apple pie from the fridge. "What do you reckon?"

It takes me a couple of seconds to process what I am looking at. "Why is the chicken pie homemade but the apple pie shop-bought?"

He looks confused. "Oh. I dunno."

"I mean, if you'd made the pastry already, wouldn't it have been easy enough to just chop up some apples?"

"Er..."

He is starting to get stressed again, and I wish I hadn't asked. "Sorry. I'm getting in your way, aren't I? Tell me to shut up."

"No, it's alright. I've just got a thousand and one things to do, that's all."

"Alright, I can take a hint. I'll let you get on with it. What time are they supposed to be here?"

He glances at his watch. "Seven."

"_Seven!_ But it's six now!"

He just shrugs apologetically.

"I wish you'd_ warned_ me..."

"It'll be_ fine_," he says, soothingly, taking me by the shoulders and steering me out of the kitchen. "Go and have a nice long bath." He pushes a glass of wine into my hand. "Drink this, and when you're ready I promise I'll have tidied the place up and won't be covered in flour, alright?"

I am still unsure. "Maybe I shouldn't have a bath after all..."

"It'll be fine," he repeats, "Trust me."

I smile. "You know, you look quite sexy covered in flour," I tell him.

He grins. "Go and have your bath, woman. There's no time for that now, I've got a pie to make."

"I don't know..."

"It's under control," he says, firmly. He pushes me out of the door with a quick pat on the bottom that I suspect he knows full well is going to leave a nice big floury handprint.

-----

When I emerge from the bath all clean and new and feeling considerably calmer forty minutes later the pie is sitting on the kitchen worktop in a shallow dish. It looks wonderful. He's made some small leaf shapes out of spare bits of pastry and arranged them on top, and brushed the whole thing with egg yolk for a glaze.

"Why have you never made this for me?" I demand, teasingly.

He beams proudly. "It looks alright, doesn't it? Probably give us all food poisoning, but it looks okay."

"If it tastes as good as it looks, I'm sure it will be delicious."

He seems to notice what I'm wearing for the first time then (a suitably sister-impressing grey knee-length skirt and loose-fitting dark blue blouse, which actually now that I think about it, I may have worn for a job interview once) and his face falls.

"Oh."

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Don't you like it?"

"Yeah, it's nice, it's just..." He turns his back on me and pretends to busy himself with the vegetables so I can't see his expression. "I thought you might wear your new dress, that's all," he says, in a studiedly casual voice, "You know, if you want..."

"Oh. Well, I wasn't sure if -"

_It might be a little too low-cut considering my role for the evening as reformed penitent super-bitch._

"Yes, alright." I glance at my watch. "Don't you think you ought to go and get changed too? They'll be here in twenty minutes."

"Or not..."

"Why, have you heard from Harry? What did he say?"

"Nothing yet. I'm sure it'll be fine," he says, unconvincingly.

"Why don't you go and see her now?"

"You were all against the idea half an hour ago!"

"No, I wasn't, I just said I wished you'd given me a bit of notice, that's all. Anyway, the damage is done. It'll only take you five minutes. I'm sure you can persuade her."

He shakes his head. "No, it's too late. She'll have already made up her mind by now anyway. Can you lay the table?"

"Well..." I give in. He's right, it's too late to do anything about Ginny now. I look him up and down.

"Ron, you're covered in flour. Go and get changed."

"I can't leave it, there's too much to do!"

"Go and get changed," I tell him soothingly, "I'll clean up in here."

"Can you just lay the bloody table? Sorry! Sorry..."

"It's okay, but you_ really_ need to calm down. I should be the worried one, for heaven's sake. You're not the one she hates."

"She doesn't_ hate_ you," he says automatically.

"She's not my biggest fan, either. Ron, please, just... go and get changed, have a quick shower or something, and try and_ calm down_. Have a glass of wine."

"Yeah. Good idea."

He knocks it back in one go as though it is water, kisses me quickly on the cheek, and hurries off. I turn back to the floury warzone that is my kitchen and take a deep breath.

---

* * *

---

They are late. I see Ron glance nervously at his watch several times, and it makes me nervous too. Ten past seven, twenty past, half past, twenty to eight... We sit opposite each other at the table, waiting, Ron drumming his fingers nervously on the table, me feeling rather self-conscious in the dress that up until now only he has seen me wearing. Still, at least this time I am wearing knickers. I bend my head to hide my smile and am suddenly seized with the urge to take him into the bedroom for a quick de-stressing. That would certainly calm him down much better than a glass of wine and any number of falsely reassuring words ever could. I stifle a giggle at the thought of Ginny and Harry waiting out in the hall and having to listen to us noisily proving how much we are back together. Me answering the front door all flushed and breathless ("I'm so sorry, we didn't hear the doorbell, have you been waiting long?") as a now terminally relaxed Ron pulls his shirt back on hastily behind me. My_ God_, what am I_ thinking?_ This could be one of the most important evenings of my life, and all I can think about is - this is_ so_ inappropriate! It must be the dress. Maybe there's some sort of spell on it that turns me into a wanton sex goddess every time I wear it.

---

I look across at him, now practically gnawing his fingers off in a kind of fervour of stress, and suddenly hope that they_ don't _come. Ron doesn't cope well with stress. Or rather, he doesn't cope well if he has time to worry about it beforehand. Throw him in at the deep end and he'll acquit himself admirably. Tell him about it three days in advance and he'll not sleep for three nights worrying about it. When he's stressed he has a tendency to panic, and when he panics he makes mistakes, blurts out things he shouldn't, takes things the wrong way, starts arguments. When we were at school and he was on the Quidditch team, he used to spend most of the morning before important matches throwing up, he was so crippled by nerves. He doesn't need this. Neither of us do. We were muddling along just fine, we were working things out. The last thing we need is Ginny coming along and stirring things up again.

---

"They're not coming, are they?" he says, with a high, shaky laugh.

"Of course they are. They're probably just stuck in traffic."

Of course, of all the likely excuses for a witch and wizard being late, stuck in traffic is the least likely, and we both know it.

"They probably just got the time wrong, that's all."

"Yeah," he says, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

We sink into silence again. Oh_ God_, I think suddenly, what if he's right? What if they really_ aren't_ coming? I was sure Harry would be able to persuade Ginny, but if even he can't change her mind, we might be in real difficulty. Maybe the rest of his family feel the same about me. And if that's the case, how much harder that makes it for both of us. Has he really got the strength to carry on seeing me against the wishes of his whole family? Until two years ago I wouldn't even have questioned it, but_ now._..

---

At ten to eight Ron stands up and announces with a resigned sigh that he might as well turn off the vegetables, and trudges towards the kitchen. I follow him.

"Never mind," I say, soothingly, "At least you tried. It's up to them n-"

The doorbell rings loudly and we both nearly jump out of our skins. Ron throws me a panicked look, announces that he "just has to go and check on the potatoes" and disappears into the kitchen so fast you would think he was on fire. I force a welcoming smile onto my face, check my dress for any tell-tale floury handprints, and pull open the front door.

---

"Ginny! Harry! So nice to see you both! Do come in!"

It takes me no more than a few seconds to realise that the reason Harry and Ginny are so late is that they were having a gigantic row - presumably about whether or not they should come tonight - and are now not speaking to one another. The atmosphere between them is so frosty I am surprised Harry doesn't need to scrape the ice from his glasses before stepping through the door.

Harry raises his hand slightly in greeting instead of giving me the usual warm hug, and Ginny merely nods in my direction with a curt, "Hermione."

I busy myself with taking their coats and showing them into the front room, still wearing my rictus grin of welcome.

"Wow!" Harry exclaims, noticing the backless nature of my dress for the first time, "Nice dress!"

He catches sight of Ginny glaring at him, and a tiny flush creeps up his cheek. "I mean, I didn't know we were dressing up!" he finishes, quickly.

"Oh, we're not," I reassure him, "I just thought - well, it's a new dress, that's all." I demonstrate a little twirl. "An anniversary present from Ron!"

I beam at them, but my smile sags almost immediately. Harry has just noticed my dress's somewhat low neckline and is currently caught in the headlights of my breasts, something which unfortunately does not go unnoticed by his girlfriend.

"It's nice," he offers, quickly dragging his gaze up to my eye level, and blushing a rather Ron-like crimson. Ginny just purses her lips.

"Of course, Ginny looks nice too," he adds, hastily.

"Too little, too late, Harry," she says, icily.

Harry gives a nervous little laugh. There is a long embarrassed silence. I wish I had thought to tell Ginny she looks nice myself, but of course, now I can't say anything without it sounding false.

"Drinks!" I exclaim, clapping my hands together with false bonhomie, "Wine? Beer?"_ Hemlock?_

---

A few minutes later the three of us are all seated at the dinner table with large glasses of wine. Harry, I notice, knocks back half of his in one go and immediately refills it whilst Ginny is not looking. I know how he feels. I force that smile onto my face once more.

"So how are you, Ginny? It's been... a long time."

"I'm fine," she says shortly, just about managing to refrain from adding, as I'm sure she wants to, "And whose fault is that?"

"And Harry, you're alright?"

"Fine!" booms Harry, rather over-enthusiastically, "And you?"

"I'm fine too."

_Silence._

"Nice weather we're having."

"Yes, it's supposed to be a really nice weekend as well, I heard."

"Yes."

"Much better than last month, anyway."

"I know! I thought it would never stop raining!"

"Apparently it was the wettest April for forty three years."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, it was on the news."

Oh, God, this is all so bloody_ polite!_

The subject of the weather exhausted, Harry and I sink into silence, and the three of us all sit there staring at our shoes, desperately racking our brains for a new topic of conversation.

"So, do you have any plans for the weekend?" I ask, addressing my question to both of them, but inevitably, Harry is the one to reply.

"Not really. Just having a lazy one, you know."

I nod. "Yes, we haven't really got any plans either."

_Silence._

"I went to Haworth a couple of weekends ago. You know, where the Bronte sisters lived?"

"Oh, right. Was that good?"

"Yes, it was very interesting. A bit touristy, though. Do you know much about the Brontes?"

"Not much," Harry admits, with a shrug, "Not really my sort of thing."

"No," I concede, "I don't suppose it would be. Well, anyway, it was interesting."

_But not interesting enough to sustain an entire conversation with someone who's never even heard of them, and someone who has at least heard of them, but hasn't read any of the books._

More silence. Ron has still not emerged from the kitchen, and his absence is now becoming so pronounced as to be suspicious. Once or twice I catch Ginny glancing towards the closed kitchen door, and I get ready to throw myself bodily between her and the kitchen if needs be. There is no way I'm letting her be alone with Ron tonight, putting those doubts in his head again, telling him all the reasons he shouldn't be giving me another chance.

"So where was that, then?" Harry again, still flogging a dead horse with the Bronte conversation.

"Oh, not far. About thirty miles away."

Harry nods.

"It was our anniversary weekend, actually," I say quickly, hoping that if I say it fast enough perhaps Ginny won't pick it up.

"Oh, that's nice," says Harry, with a nervous little sideways glance at his girlfriend, who merely rolls her eyes skywards and gives a pointed little cough. If it is possible to cough sarcastically, then this is a textbook example.

"Yes, it was lovely, actually. We went and stayed in this lovely little B & B on the edge of the moors. There was a lovely little pub nearby, too, we had a lovely homemade rabbit pie for dinner."

_I must stop saying lovely._

"So you had a good time, then? I'm surprised you managed to persuade Ron to go to a museum, though. Especially on your anniversary."

"Well, it was the day after, and he didn't come with me because he had to play in a Quidditch match in London that afternoon. But he came straight back up here again afterwards. We had afternoon tea at a wonderful little tea room –"

"Was it lovely?" asks Ginny, deadpan.

For a second our eyes meet. "Yes," I say, firmly. "It was very nice, actually. Ron -"

Harry suddenly laughs out loud for no apparent reason other than nerves, and we both turn to look at him, eyebrows raised. He immediately affects sudden interest in the carpet.

"Yes," says Ginny, ignoring him and seizing on this point, "Where_ is_ Ron? He is_ here_, I take it?"

I feel my face burning up. "Sorry," I mumble, "He's a bit snowed under with all the cooking."

"Is he actually going to bother to come out and say hello at any point?"

"I'll just go and see."

---

When I push open the kitchen door I find that far from being up to his elbows in potato peelings, Ron is leaning on the kitchen worktop with a large glass of wine in one hand, flicking lazily through the Daily Prophet's special Quidditch Cup Final pullout.

"What are you doing?" I hiss.

He looks up guiltily. "Er..."

"I'm_ dying_ out there, for God's sake, at least come and say hello!"

He shrugs and puts the paper down. "Alright. Keep your hair on."

I bite my lip in frustration. I will not argue with him tonight. We need to put on a united front if we are going to get through this.

---

"Oh, so she hasn't got you locked in there, after all?" Ginny says dryly when we emerge. "I was starting to wonder."

"Alright, Gin," says Ron, shiftily. He nods at Harry. "Harry."

"Alright," Harry grins back, the smile vanishing instantly when Ginny shoots a glare at him.

There is a very long, very awkward silence.

"So how are the Cannons doing?" asks Harry brightly, patently resorting to the only other non-contentious subject open to us now we have exhausted the weather.

Ron takes a large gulp of wine. "Not great, actually," he says gloomily, "They've sacked their manager again."

"No way!"

"Yep. Still, after the season we've had, I can't say I blame them."

They proceed to talk animatedly about Quidditch for ten long minutes, Ginny and I reduced to sitting there in silence, staring down into our glasses. She knows a lot about Quidditch, and might have joined in herself if she wasn't making a point of not speaking to Harry. Eventually, however, even this usually reliable subject is exhausted, and the boys' conversation peters out into nothingness.

"Well," says Ron, sardonically, "Can't stand around here chatting all day... if you'll excuse me..."

And he scurries off back to the kitchen like the coward he is, leaving me to face the ensuing prickly silence alone. I can feel Ginny's critical gaze on me and it makes me nervous. Ginny is like Ron; most of the time she's a fairly upbeat, laughing and joking sort of person, but when she's upset about something, boy, do you know about it. I pull my skirt down carefully over my knees. I knew I shouldn't have worn this dress. Of course Ron likes it, that's why he wanted me to wear it. Harry_ certainly _likes it. It's a boy-pleaser of a dress. Which is exactly why I shouldn't have worn it, and why Ginny is giving me that look, the one I recognise so well because I've seen it recently, on my own face, in a pub mirror in Hackney, not three weeks ago. The look that says,_ I know what you're up to, dressed like that, trying to worm your way into his affections. Well, it won't work._ The irony of being on the receiving end of The Look is not lost on me.

"So what did you get Ron, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

"For an anniversary present. What did you get Ron?"

I blush. "Oh. Well... there wasn't really much time. We were out on the moors all weekend, and he was at Quidditch, and -"

"So you didn't get him_ anything?"_ Her eyebrows have practically disappeared into her hairline, they're raised so high.

"No, I did, I - it was a silly thing, really. There was one of these Muggle outdoor shops - it was the only shop we passed all weekend, you see - and..." I can feel my face burning up. I wish I had not said it was a silly thing. I might as well have just handed her the gun to shoot me with.

"I got him some waterproof trousers," I tell her, knowing what an unromantic and practical gift that sounds, as though I didn't put any thought into it at all, when in fact, the opposite was the case. They weren't cheap either, they were made from some sort of lightweight techno-futuristic fabric that wicks moisture away from the skin, not like those ones my dad used to wear when we went camping that looked as though he was wearing half a tent and rustled when he walked. At the time, I thought it was a really good present, but now I'm starting to doubt myself. Ginny is looking unimpressed and I feel the need to explain further.

"You know, so he doesn't get wet when he's playing Quidditch in the rain."

A blank stare.

"Because it rained a lot last month and he kept complaining he was getting wet, you see. They're dark green with an orange stripe down the leg. You know, Cannons colours," I add, unnecessarily.

"Yes," she says dryly, "I got that."

"He did really like them," I tell her, in a small voice, "They've got loads of pockets, so he's got somewhere to put his wand and his wallet, and you know... mints... and... stuff..."

I tail off in the face of her contemptuous expression._ Mints!_ Why the hell did I say_ mints?_ I hear myself give a nervous little laugh.

"Well, you know, boys are hard to buy for!"

She gives me a scornful look, as if to say, boys you've known for fifteen years shouldn't be.

"So how long until dinner again?" Harry asks, and I offer him silent thanks for giving me an escape route and jump to my feet, gratefully.

"I'll just go and check."

-----

I find Ron leaning on the worktop, munching a cheese sandwich, and for a second I'm too stunned to even form a coherent sentence.

"What... why are... what the..._ frig..._ are you doing?"

"Having a sandwich," he says, amiably, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I can see that, I'm not blind! Why aren't you cooking?"

"It's nearly ready. Don't worry about it, it's all under control."

"Will you please come back out there? I'm running out of things to say."

"Alright."

"_Now_, please!"

"I'm just gonna finish my sandwich first."

"Ron!" I grab his arm and physically drag him from the room.

"Alright?" says Harry, glancing up at Ron's arrival, "How are we doing?"

"Ten minutes," says Ron, confidently.

There is a small awkward silence. I desperately rack my brains for a nice neutral topic of conversation. The weather... Quidditch... can't talk about the telly because they don't watch it... family..._ no_... work?

"Oh!" Harry exclaims suddenly, with obvious relief, "You'll never guess who Ginny bumped into the other day!"

"Who?"

"Luna!"

Ron chokes on his wine, and for a brief moment we catch each other's eye then look quickly away again.

Harry is looking at me expectantly, and I realise I should probably express an interest in someone who he and Ginny still consider an old friend. "Oh?" I say, trying to make my voice sound as normal as possible, "How_ is_ Luna?"

"She's fine, she –"

"Do_ you_ want to tell this story, Harry?" Ginny interrupts, irritably.

Harry mumbles an apology and reaches quickly for his glass.

"Like Harry said," continues Ginny, dryly, "She's fine. I bumped into her in Gringotts on my lunch hour and we went for a quick coffee."

"What's she up to these days?"

"Oh, this and that. You know Luna. Mad as a bag of rabbits. She's dyed her hair purple!"

They both fall about laughing, and after a moment's hesitation Ron simply says "Ha," as though that will suffice in place of the genuine merriment he can't quite conjure up.

"So what's she doing now?" I ask, keen to let Ginny enlighten us with the salient facts as quickly as possible so we can move on to a less contentious subject.

"Oh, she makes her own jewellery. Sells it by owl order."

Ginny seems to be finally warming up, and I am grateful. "Sounds like Luna."

"That's what_ I_ said," Harry chortles, "I bet it's all covered in_ runes_ and stuff..."

"So where's she living now?"

"Cornwall. Been there for a few years apparently."

I can't help myself. "Is she with anyone?"

Ron gives me a pleading look, as though I might be about to spill his sordid little secret.

"Don't think so," replies Ginny, thankfully not noticing, "We didn't really have time to discuss it, to be honest. Oh - she asked after_ you_, Ron..."

Ron and I both freeze, and he deliberately keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the bottom of his wine glass.

"Did she?" he asks, faintly.

"Yeah, she wanted to know if you were still living with us. How did she know that, I wonder?"

Ron gives a small unhappy shrug. "Her dad probably told her. He still lives near Mum and Dad, remember?"

"Oh yeah. That would probably be it, then."

"How_ are_ your mum and dad?" I ask, quickly, now desperate to change the subject and hoping it won't be a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Ginny's eyes narrow. "They're fine," she says, crisply, "I'm surprised Ron hasn't told you already."

"Oh, he_ has_," I say hastily, "I just -"

"Can anyone smell burning?" interrupts Harry, suddenly. We all look at Ron, who stares blankly back at us for several long seconds before realisation finally dawns and he swears loudly, jumps up from his seat and makes a dash for the kitchen.

"Oh, dear," says Harry sympathetically, "Do you think that's our pie?"

----

I am torn between staying here and seizing the opportunity to ask some of the questions I wanted to ask Ron, but couldn't, and going to help him in the kitchen. Probably best to leave him. He won't take kindly to being hassled if things are going badly in there.

"So..." I begin, brightly, "What else did Luna have to say for herself?"

"Oh, not much really, we just talked about school, you know."

"Has she seen anyone else from school?"

"I think she said she'd bumped into Ernie MacMillan. Oh, and Michael Corner, he was in my year, you won't remember him. He was my first -"

"Boyfriend," Harry and I chorus together.

Ginny looks flabbergasted. "I didn't think you'd remember!"

"He was an idiot," Harry mutters, darkly.

Ginny glares at him. "At least it didn't take him _five years_ to notice I_ existed,"_ she says, waspishly.

Harry says nothing, just takes what he evidently considers to be a dignified sip of his wine, and I glance from to one to the other nervously, feeling as though I have walked in on a private argument.

I try again. "So I heard it was your dad's birthday last week, Ginny..."

She transfers her glare from Harry to me. "That's right."

"Was it a good party?"

"Yeah," chips in Harry, obviously grateful for the change of subject, "Molly put on a really good spread. We had this really excellent -"

"The whole family were there," says Ginny pointedly, the clear implication being that as I am_ no longer_ family, I was not welcome.

"Victoria sponge," finishes Harry, awkwardly.

There is a very long silence.

"Excuse me," I say, with as much dignity as I can muster, "I'm just going to see if Ron needs a hand."

----

Before I can even get to my feet, however, Ron himself suddenly bursts out of the kitchen, the door banging back against the wall and making us all jump.

"Er..." he says hesitantly, "There might be a_ slight_ delay with dinner..."

"Oh, God!" Harry moans, "How much of a delay? I'm_ starving!" _

"Shut up, Harry," hisses Ginny.

"Not long," says Ron, a lightness in his voice that after so many years I recognise as a sign of him bluffing madly.

Harry and Ginny both simultaneously reach for a bottle to refill their glasses, and I take advantage of their temporary distraction to grab Ron and pull him into the kitchen.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," he bluffs, "Everything's under -"

"If you say, "Everything's under control" one more time," I tell him through gritted teeth, "I swear I will kill you."

"I might have sort of forgotten to turn the oven on," he mutters.

_"What?!"_

"Well, it's your stupid oven," he says, defiantly.

"How do you work that one out?"

"Well," - he turns to the oven to demonstrate - "I turned_ this _one up to 200, like you said, but I didn't realise you had to turn this one on as well, did I? How was I supposed to know you had to turn them both on for it to work? It's not my fault!"

I am confused. "But... if you... so, what was that burning smell, then?"

He shrugs. "Burnt the carrots," he says, in a tone that positively dares me to challenge him on it.

I take a deep calming breath. "So how long until dinner's ready exactly?"

He bites his lip. "About an hour."

"Oh, God!"

"... and a half..."

"Oh,_ God!"_ I repeat, hysteria starting to creep in now. "Have we got anything else we can give them?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like a starter. Anything will do."

He shrugs. "I could make sandwiches."

I almost laugh out loud, but instead I let out a sigh, stand on tiptoe, and kiss him on the forehead.

"What was that for?" he asks, bewildered.

"Just because. Now come on, we're going back out there, we're going to smile and be polite, and we're going to pretend that _everything's under control_..."

---

The next half hour is one of the longest I have ever had to endure. I'd laugh if it wasn't so ridiculous. Ginny isn't speaking to Harry or myself. Harry isn't speaking to Ginny in case she bites his head off. I_ can't_ speak to Ginny because she isn't speaking to me, so the only person we can all speak to safely is Ron, and since he keeps disappearing into the kitchen for increasingly long periods on the pretext of "checking on the potatoes", this is not exactly helpful.

---

Of course, all this drinking wine on an empty stomach means it goes straight to their heads. I am on cranberry juice (_someone_ needs to stay sober), so all that happens is that I become increasingly desperate for the loo, but Harry and Ron seem to be having some sort of unofficial drinking contest, both of them having apparently determined that getting as drunk as possible is the only way to survive this experience unscathed. Normally I would expect Ron to win such a contest hands down, but tonight he seems determined to drink himself into a coma. I make a mental note to check the bathroom cabinet for anti-nausea potion, certain that before the night is out, I shall be holding his hair out of his eyes over the toilet bowl again. It doesn't help that Harry has left his wand out on the table for the others to use. How more wizards aren't raging alcoholics when you can just refill your glass with a tap of your wand is beyond me.

---

"How long again did you say before dinner was ready?" Ginny asks Ron, on one of his rare forays out of the kitchen.

He flushes. "About half an hour," he mumbles. "Forty-five minutes tops."

"You're a terrible liar, Ron," says Ginny, looking both frustrated and amused.

"Maybe a bit longer," he admits, "Sorry."

"Can we help with anything?" she asks, kindly.

He shakes his head. "No, it's fine. It's under cont- it's fine. Thanks."

"You haven't got any crisps or anything, have you?" asks Harry, his stomach rumbling loud enough for all of us to hear. "I haven't had anything to eat since lunchtime."

Ron looks flustered. "No, sorry. I didn't think. Shit. Sorry."

"Oh, well."

"I could make you a sandwich."

"No, you're alright. I'll just wait for dinner."

"Great," says Ron, faintly, and I can tell he's starting to feel pressured again. There's a lot riding on tonight and we both know it.

"Why don't I nip to the shop and get us some crisps?" I offer.

Harry shakes his head. "No, that's fine. Don't want to spoil my dinner!"

"Great," says Ron again, looking rather sick.

There is a short silence.

"So, Ron," begins Ginny in a rather high, tense voice, "I hear you had a weekend away recently."

Ron looks to me immediately for reassurance, a look which once again, Ginny's eagle eyes do not miss.

"Er... yeah. We went up to Yorkshire for the weekend. Well, we're already_ in_ Yorkshire, obviously. I mean -"

"And you had a good time, did you?"

Unfortunately, Ron's crimson blush and somewhat abashed grin speak volumes about how much of a good time he had, and which part of the weekend he enjoyed the most. Harry laughs and looks down at his shoes, and Ginny starts drumming her fingers furiously on the table. She clearly thinks he's only back with me for the sex, and the combination of his reaction and me wearing this dress can't be helping her lose that impression. What was it she said to him?_ "All she has to do is open her legs and you go running back to her"_? She obviously has a pretty low opinion of him. Of_ us_. Actually, we held out for almost eighteen hours before jumping back into bed together, which, considering how long it had been for either of us at that point, I would say was impressively restrained, frankly.

"Um..." says Ron, looking highly embarrassed, "Yeah, well, it was nice being out in the country, wasn't it? We were really lucky with the weather as well, we - aargh! Fuck!"

He has reached across me for the nearest bottle of wine and managed to knock my glass flying in the process. Red wine spills across the table and drips off the edge into my lap, soaking rapidly into my new dress. I jump to my feet, and he does too, apologising profusely and cack-handedly attempting to wipe the wine off the front of my dress with his sleeve. Ginny, thank God, has the presence of mind to grab Harry's wand and siphon up the spilled wine, then clean it off me, too.

"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful.

"Yeah, thanks, Ginny," says Ron, and I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

Ginny shoots me an annoyed look, as though it's somehow_ my_ fault. She turns back to Ron.

"So did you -"

But he cuts her off before she can even finish the sentence. "Yeah, well, anyway, I'd better get back to the kitchen. Those peas won't cook themselves, ha ha!"

---

_"Well!"_ barks Ginny, turning two years of pent-up fury on me the second he has closed the kitchen door behind him, "I must say, you've done a bang-up job on Ron! He's been here, what,_ four weeks_, and you've already driven him to the bottle!"

I stare at her, not sure if this is some sort of joke. "What? No! I –"

"_Two years_ it's taken for him to even_ start_ getting over you, and you just waltz back in to his life as though nothing had happened! I'll give it to you, your timing's impeccable. What did you do, think, oh, he's probably just about recovered now, it's time for me to get back in touch so I can ruin his life all over again?"

"No! It wasn't like that! It was Harry, he -"

Too late, I miss Harry's warning look, and Ginny turns on him at lightning speed. "So this is all_ your_ doing, is it? That's brilliant. That's just_ fantastic_. My God, it's just like the old days, isn't it? You three making decisions behind my back and deciding that I'm not important enough to tell!"

Harry looks stricken. "It wasn't like that, Gin, honestly. Hermione asked me to come and help paint her front room - which I did_ tell_ you about - and I just thought it was a perfect opportunity to invite Ron as well -"

"Which you_ didn't_ tell me about," mutters Ginny.

"No, I know, but only because I never even thought he'd come. He wasn't going to, not until right at the last minute. We sat on the wall outside her flat for about fifteen minutes before he said he'd go in. I wasn't trying to get them back together, I swear. I just thought it was about time they could face being in the same room, that's all. They can't avoid each other forever, can they? I didn't actually think he'd move back in with her. Come on, after everything that's happened? No-one could have predicted that one!"

I stare at him, hurt. Harry is talking as though he didn't_ want_ us to get back together, that he thinks it is a mistake. All he wanted was for us to be able to be in the same room without killing each other. Maybe he's just trying to placate Ginny, but that's what it sounds like to me.

"_I_ could have predicted that one," says Ginny, angrily. "This is_ Ron_ we're talking about, remember? He's always been a complete idiot where_ she's_ concerned."

I'm not having that. "Ginny -"

"Was I talking to you?" she snaps, and I sink back into silence. She turns to Harry again. "You should have_ told_ me!"

He shrugs. "I know, and I'm sorry, but like I said, I never actually thought he'd come. What would have been the point of telling you? Why get you all upset for nothing?"

"I'm your_ girlfriend!_ You're supposed to tell me_ everything!"_

"Sorry," says Harry, in a small voice, "I will do next time."

"_Next_ time? There better not_ be_ a next time! There is no way this ridiculousness is lasting longer than a month, I guarantee you that! And when he comes crawling back - which he_ will _- and starts spending all day in bed with a bottle of Firewhiskey again, you'll have that on your conscience!"

She stops to gasp for air, then dives straight back in where she left off. "I have spent the last two years trying to get him back to his usual self -"

"So have I!" Harry protests, indignantly.

"Then you should have known better, shouldn't you? This is the worst thing you could have done, Harry! I can't believe you did it without asking me first, but I_ really_ can't believe you thought it would actually be a good idea in the first place! Couldn't you see what would happen?"

Harry just sits there, cowed and contrite. He hates confrontation, always has. In this circumstance, though, I don't blame him. Ginny can be terrifying when she is fired up with righteous anger like this. Even I - and let's face it, I'm not scared of a good argument - will often back down when faced with Ginny's fury.

"I really want this to work -" I interrupt.

"Oh, shut up! No-one asked for your opinion!" She turns back to Harry. "You've set him back two years by doing this! I just hope you're happy!" She folds her arms angrily across her chest.

I try again. "I really think - "

Ginny ignores me. "He was getting_ better_, Harry."

"He wasn't."

"He was! He's not going to the pub every night anymore. He's joined that Quidditch team... He..." She tails off, obviously trying to think of another example of how Ron is getting better, and failing miserably.

Harry reaches across the table and puts a placating hand over hers. "He_ wasn't_ getting better, Gin, and you know it."

"He was," she insists, but without any real conviction.

Ron himself chooses this moment to reappear from the kitchen, the sudden painful silence making it patently obvious that we have all just been talking about him.

"Everything alright?" Harry asks kindly.

"Half an hour," mutters Ron, and he turns right back around and shuts himself in the kitchen again.

"Nice one, Gin," says Harry, dryly.

"Oh, shut up, Harry."

---

Since Ron is firmly ensconced in the kitchen once more and Ginny is fully occupied squabbling with Harry, it seems safe to finally make a dash to the loo, something which I have been putting off for nearly two hours, not wanting to give Ginny the opportunity to work on Ron in my absence. When I come back downstairs, however, my worst fears are confirmed when I find Harry sitting alone at the dinner table, reading the label on the back of the wine bottle.

"Where's Ginny?"

He nods toward the closed kitchen door.

"Why did you let her go in?" I wail.

He gives a short laugh. "Oh, like I could have_ stopped_ her!"

I stare worriedly at the door for nearly half a minute, waiting for them to come out, then reluctantly give up and go and sit opposite Harry at the table, keeping one eye on the kitchen the whole time.

"Can I ask you something, Harry?"

He looks at me. "Ye-ah..." he says, hesitantly.

"Do you think Ron's making a mistake getting back with me?"

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not up to me, is it?"

"I value your opinion, Harry."

He sighs. "You know nothing would make me happier than to see you two back together."

"But..."

"What?"

"I sense a 'but' coming on."

He pulls a face. "I just... You don't think it's all a bit..._ soon_, or anything?"

"No. I don't."

"Right." He looks unconvinced.

"Harry, I've wasted two years already, I don't want to waste any more time."

"Yeah, I get that. I just can't help thinking that maybe you've –" He corrects himself. "That maybe_ Ron's_ rushed into this without thinking it through."

I am reminded of Ron's analogy that he feels a bit like he has thrown himself off a cliff without checking to see if his parachute is working first.

"So you're on Ginny's side, are you?" I ask, hotly.

"It's not about_ sides_, Hermione. I'm stuck in the middle of all this. Never being able to see my two best friends in the same room. Only getting to see you about twice a month, and having to make a special appointment because you won't come down to London and Ginny won't have you in the house. Not being able to talk about you in front of them, or them in front of you. Ron and Ginny's rows. Ron's moods. He hasn't been the easiest person to live with this last couple of years, you know. Of_ course_ I'd like to see things work out between you. Of_ course_ I'd like Ron to get his life back on track again. Of_ course_ I'd like to have my house back and my girlfriend all to myself again, I just don't want to have to go through all this again, that's all."

"Nor do I! It hasn't been easy for me either, you know."

"Yeah, but_ you_ didn't spend three months drinking yourself stupid and nearly getting_ sacked_, did you?"

"That wasn't my fault!"

"Well, whose fault_ was_ it, then?"

We stare at each other.

"I want this to work, Harry," I tell him, "I've never wanted anything more in my life."

He hesitates. "Well... good..." he says, uncertainly.

"I want this to work," I repeat. "I'll do whatever it takes."

He lets out a long sigh. "Fine. I just hope you know what you're doing, that's all. Because Ginny's right about one thing, there better not be a next time..."

He tails off and glances nervously towards the kitchen. Taking his cue, I get to my feet, go over and press my ear to the door. No shouting at least, just a low murmur of conversation.

"What are they saying?" Harry asks.

"Shh! I'm listening!"

I push the door open and they both look up from their conversation and immediately stop talking when they see me standing there.

"Everything alright?" I ask brightly. "I thought you might need a hand, Ron."

Ron and Ginny exchange meaningful glances, then she just shakes her head and pushes past me into the front room, without saying a word.

"Everything alright?" I repeat.

Ron just turns his back and busies himself with the saucepans so he doesn't have to meet my gaze.

"Fine," he says, shortly.

"What did Ginny want?"

A shrug.

"Do you need a hand with anything?"

A shake of the head.

I desperately want to ask what Ginny said to him, but decide to save it for when we are alone. He's obviously stressed enough without me adding to it. My job this evening is to be the calm, reasonable,_ sober_ one. It can wait. Instead I go up to him and slide my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his back.

"You do know I love you, don't you?"

He disentangles himself from my arms. "Yeah, can you just get me the gravy powder from the cupboard?"

"Ron!" I say, hurt.

"I've just got a lot to do, Hermione."

"Well, let me give you a hand, then."

"No, can you... can you just..."

"What did Ginny say to you?"

"Nothing," he snaps, "I'm_ fine_. Can you just go and check Harry's got enough to drink or something?"

He lifts his gaze to mine for the first time since I entered the room and I see the pleading look in his eyes._ Not now_.

"Alright," I sigh, "But let me know if you need any help, OK?"

-----

Ten minutes later, we are all back seated at the dinner table while Harry attempts to lighten up the deathly atmosphere by telling a very long, very rambling joke. Unfortunately jokes are not his forte even when sober - that's always been more Ron's department - and it is falling somewhat flat. Sensing that he isn't going to get to the end of it anytime soon, and that this might be my last chance to make a mercy dash to the corner shop before hostilities commence in earnest, I announce that I am just popping out to get some crisps and snacks. As though a handful of peanuts might undo the damage that two solid hours of drinking cheap supermarket red wine on an empty stomach has done already.

"I'll come with you!" Ron blurts, leaping up from his chair.

I shake my head. "Stay here and keep an eye on the dinner. I'll only be a couple of minutes."

Ron's shoulders sag with disappointment. He follows me into the hallway, grabs me by the arm and hisses, "Don't leave me here!"

"Don't be silly," I say, briskly, wrenching my arm out of his grasp, "I'll only be gone two minutes. What can possibly happen in two minutes?"

"I can hang myself from the light fitting?" he jokes, grimly.

"It'll be_ fine_. Now, do you need anything else from the shop?"

"Some rope?"

"Ron –"

"Can you get us some more wine?" Harry calls from the living room, "This stuff's giving me a headache!"

"Maybe that's just because you're drinking so much of it," I hear Ginny scold.

"Yeah," agrees Ron, fishing in his pocket and handing me a twenty pound note. "Get the strongest stuff they've got. Nothing less than twelve per cent. Get whisky if you like. Gin. Vodka._ Anything_."

"Ron," I say, worriedly, "This isn't going to help..."

He gives a short laugh. "Oh, like the evening could get any_ worse!"_

I hesitate. "Well... alright, but I'll be back soon, okay?"

"I'll have the chair ready for you to kick away from under me," he says, dryly, giving me an ironic little wave as he closes the front door.

---

When I return from the off-licence ten minutes later with the crisps, three more bottles of wine and some very strong misgivings, I can hear male and female voices shouting halfway up the stairs, but when I walk into the front room I see that the two people having a stand-up row are Ginny and Harry. Ron is just sitting there while they argue over his head, now having given up completely and drinking straight from the bottle.

"This is all your fault! Trying to sort out everyone's problems for them! Why can't you just leave things alone?"

"Because I_ did_ that, and that didn't work, did it?_ Someone_ had to do something!"

"Excuse me? What do you think _I've_ been doing for the last two years?"

"Yeah, I know, that's not what I -"

"What I don't understand is why you didn't think you could_ tell_ me -"

"Because I knew how you'd react!"

"Oh, I'm that predictable, am I? Thanks very much!"

"Ginny -"

"Don't you think you should_ tell_ me when you have these stupid half-baked ideas instead of just going ahead and doing them?"

"Well..._ yeah_, probably..."

_"Probably?"_ she shrieks, disbelievingly.

"Will you for once just let me_ FINISH?"_ he yells suddenly.

Harry's shouting reduces even Ginny to stunned silence. I take the opportunity to make my presence known with a small cough and Ron jumps up in obvious relief and grabs the bag of wine from my hand.

"About bloody time!"

He uncorks one of the bottles and then looks up at all of us watching him and says brightly, "More wine, anyone?"

Ginny shakes her head but Harry reaches for his glass: "Hell, yeah!"

"Don't you think you've had enough?" she asks, coldly.

_"No,"_ says Harry, firmly, holding out his glass to be refilled.

Ron starts to laugh. "Not nearly enough! Here you go, Harry. Drink up!" He waves the bottle at me. "Come on, Hermione, come and join the_ party!_" He says the last word with an ironic grimace.

"Shouldn't you be keeping an eye on the dinner?"

He sighs and hauls himself to his feet, stumbling slightly and nearly knocking over his chair, but managing to catch it just in time.

"See that? Lightning reflexes! Years of Quidditch, that is!"

He gets halfway to the kitchen, then doubles back for the bottle of wine. "Nearly forgot..."

-----

As soon as he has disappeared into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, hopefully to check on the pie but more likely to carry on drinking in peace and quiet, Ginny sinks down into her seat again.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she scolds Harry.

"Why?" he asks, sarcastically, "Are you not enjoying yourself?"

"It's not_ about_ me, is it?"

"Oh right, who_ is_ it about, then?"

She gives him a deathly look. "I mean, look at the state of him! Does he_ look_ happy?"

Harry just shrugs.

"Exactly!"

"He's alright," I interject, regretting it immediately as they both turn to stare at me. "Honestly, he's been fine. The last couple of weeks have been wonderf-" I falter in the face of Ginny's sceptical expression. "I think he was just nervous about tonight, that's all."

Ginny glares at me. "So this is all_ my_ fault, is it?"

"No, of course not, I'm just saying -"

"That's exactly what she's saying!" Harry retorts, unhelpfully. "That's my whole point! If we just left them alone to get on with things I'm sure they'd be fine!"

"Oh, you're sure of that, are you? So that's why you stuck your oar in and tried to get them back together, is it?"

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, he's not exactly doing very well on his own, is he? Have you forgotten what happened on his birthday? That was only a few weeks ago!"

"Of course I haven't forgotten! How could I possibly have_ forgotten?_ I was_ there_, remember?"

"Hang on," I interrupt urgently, "What happened on his birthday?"

They both turn to look at me warily, then at each other, frowning.

"Why, hasn't he told you?" Ginny asks, gloatingly.

I turn to Harry. "What happened on his birthday?" I plead.

Harry shrugs. "Molly cooked this huge meal for him, all the family were there, and he didn't turn up."

"He_ did_ turn up!" interjects Ginny, angrily.

"Well, yeah," concedes Harry, "He_ did_ turn up, but he was two and a half hours late, so -"

"Dinner was ruined," snaps Ginny, clearly still furious at the memory.

"And then he had a huge row with Ginny..."

Ginny looks somewhat shamefaced.

"... and after that we didn't see him for about four days."

"What do you mean, you didn't see him?"

"I mean, he didn't come home."

I stare at him. "Where did he go?"

He shrugs. "God knows. Probably slept under his desk again."

Ginny shoots him a "shut up" look.

"Didn't you ask him?"

Another shrug. "He never tells us anything these days."

"Could he have gone to Anna's?"

They both stare at me blankly. Finally Harry asks, curiously, "Who's Anna?"

"Never mind," I say hastily, "Weren't you worried?"

"Of course we were worried!" Ginny shrieks, "You think we don't_ care?"_

"No, of course n-"

"She's not saying that, Ginny," says Harry, wearily, "Of course we were worried. But, you know, he's a grown-up, there's only so much we can do."

"You don't stop caring about someone just because they're an adult!"

"I know," Harry says, patiently, "I'm just_ saying_, if he wants to go for a drink on his birthday, it's up to him, isn't it?

"I think it was rather more than one drink!" she scoffs.

"So? It was his_ birthday!_ Christ, if you can't have a drink on your birthday, when can you have one?"

Ginny rounds on him in a flash. "Don't you defend him! Mum_ cried_, Harry! She_ cried!"_

"I know! I was_ there_, remember? I'm just saying; we're not his mum and dad, he can do what he wants. He can stay out all night if he wants to. There isn't a bloody_ curfew._ You have to let him make his own mistakes."

Unfortunately Ginny realises the implications of this statement about the same as I do.

"Oh, so you_ agree_ that this is a_ mistake?"_ she shrieks.

Harry throws me a pleading look, begging me to intervene and help him out.

"Ginny, he's right, you have to let Ron make his own mistakes."

Ginny stares at me, open-mouthed, as though she cannot believe I have even addressed her, let alone am actually disagreeing with her.

"_WHAT?"_

"I'm just going to the loo," Harry mumbles, getting quickly to his feet and shooting me an apologetic look. "I'll be two minutes tops," he adds, obviously not wanting to leave us alone together for too long lest Ginny draws her wand and puts a hex on me. As soon as he has gone I turn back to her, determined to take this opportunity to explain how I feel.

"I do understand your point of view..." I start, but she cuts in before I can finish.

"Excuse me? You_ understand my point of view?"_

"Yes. I mean, if it had been the other way around, if you had du -_ left_ Harry, I would feel the same way."

"Oh, you would, would you?"

"Yes, I'd be just as upset as you are."

"Well!" she exclaims, her voice high and furious, "I'm sure Harry will find that tremendously reassuring if I ever decide to_ dump_ him!"

"I'm just trying to -"

"I know what you're_ just_ trying to do, thank you very much!" She leans forward across the table so her face is very close to mine. "Do you remember when I came up here to see you about a month after you'd left?"

I swallow hard. "Of... of course."

"So then you'll remember that I practically_ begged_ you to come back and sort things out? That wasn't easy for me, you know. I did it for Ron, because I thought that you coming back and sorting things out was the best thing for both of you. I_ told_ you what sort of state he was in, but you didn't give a toss, did you?"

"Of course I -"

"You said you weren't going to come back, you said he had to come and ask you himself. And I said -"

"You said you'd never forgive me."

"That's right. And I haven't."

My heart sinks. "And you're not going to."

She shakes her head. "Not now. I might have done, in about ten years time, if I'd bumped into you in the street and Ron had met someone else by then. I might have thought, oh well, it's all ancient history, at least he's happy now. But he isn't. Not yet, anyway. And he's never going to be if you keep stirring things up again. Why can't you just leave him alone? Let him get on with his life."

"I _love_ him," I tell her, hoarsely.

She folds her arms angrily across her chest. "If you loved him, you wouldn't be putting him through this again. You wouldn't have come within a hundred miles of him. I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm sure you think you've got the best intentions in all this, but I really think he's making a horrible, horrible mistake getting back with you."

I want to tell her she's wrong, but the words stick in my throat. As little as two weeks ago I know that Ron and I were both wondering the same thing. Even Harry seems to think this is a mistake. I blink back the tears that threaten to overwhelm me and hold my chin up high to meet her gaze.

"We were friends once."

Her eyes flash. "Yes, we were. Right up until the point where you chose your job over my brother."

"That's not what happened."

"That's what_ Ron_ thinks happened."

"I've explained that to him. He knows it's more complicated than that."

"Oh, does he?" she mutters, sceptically.

I sigh. "Ginny... you have to accept, if we stay together..."

"I give it a month."

"Well... that's your opinion."

"Yes, it is."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"Yes, well... it's just a shame you aren't sorry about some of the_ other_ things you've done, isn't it?"

"I_ am_ sorry! Ron_ knows_ I'm sorry! If I could go back and change what I did, don't you think I would? We_ both_ want this to work, Ginny, it's not just me. Ron really wants it to work too."

She gives a disbelieving snort. "Well, of_ course_ he does! Of course he wants it to work! He wants the Cannons to win the League as well, but that's not going to happen_ either!"_

"What was that about the Cannons?"

We both look up, guiltily. Ron has come out of the kitchen and is standing in the doorway, holding the pepper mill.

"Nothing," I tell him, in what I hope is a reassuring voice, "We were just -"

"Right," he says, sullenly, clearly not believing a word of it, and I wonder how much he heard from inside the kitchen.

-----

Harry and I spend the next fifteen minutes desperately trying to fill the silence by any means we can. We end up reminiscing about our old teachers, having finally hit on a subject we know we can keep going pretty much indefinitely if we need to. Frankly, at this rate, it's starting to look as though we might.

"Do you remember Professor Binns?" Harry asks, with a slight air of desperation, "He had the most boring voice I've ever heard."

"I know," I admit, "Even_ I_ used to have trouble staying awake in his lessons."

"God, that was the dullest subject ever! No wonder I failed my OWL!"

"That might have had something to do with you fainting during your exam, though," Ginny pipes up, her voice hoarse from all the shouting, and Harry is so grateful, so relieved, he throws her a huge smile.

"Yeah, or maybe I just fell asleep 'cos it was so boring! Ha ha!"

"Didn't you actually fall asleep in Trelawney's class once?"

"Oh, God, that's right! Mad old bat..."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Ron pulling the nearest bottle of wine toward him, shakily filling his glass and throwing it down his throat nearly in one go before refilling it once more. He is slumped low in his chair, his chin nearly level with the table, and he's barely looked at any of us or spoken for some time. I squeeze his knee and whisper, "Are you okay?" He lifts his head and glares at me, before returning to his glass. I drag him into the kitchen on the pretext of helping him with the vegetables, and close the door firmly behind us.

"This is all_ your_ fault!" he announces accusingly, the second I close the door behind me.

"How do you work that one out?" I ask quietly, trying to keep my voice level.

"Well, you were the one who kept on at me to try and sort things out with Ginny. You wouldn't bloody shut up about it. Well, this is me sorting things out. Happy now?"

"Excuse me, it was_ your_ idea, if you remember! You just sprang it on me at the last minute with no warning!"

"Whatever," he mutters; the last resort of someone with no comeback.

"Please, Ron," I beg him. "We haven't got time for this. Please, just... sober up and make an effort, can't you?"

"Sober_ up?"_ he laughs, incredulously, "You're joking, aren't you? I don't wanna remember a single second of this disaster!_ Jesus!_ This has got to be the worst dinner party_ ever! _That'll teach me to listen to you!"

I take a deep breath. There is no point arguing with him, and this definitely isn't the time or the place. Besides, there have been enough arguments tonight.

-----

Dinner is finally served at ten to eleven. Harry and Ginny are by now so ravenous that they scoff their dinner down in only a few mouthfuls, finally reduced to silence. Ron, whose own appetite seems to have disappeared completely, watches an entire afternoon's hard work disappear in seconds with a resigned sort of expression, then shakes his head and reaches for the nearest bottle. When the scraping of knife on plate has eventually ceased, I say, aloud, "That was lovely, Ron," but he just glares at me, as if to say, "Well, you're the only one who thinks so." I am not helped by Harry's only half-joking, "We haven't got to wait another three hours for pudding, have we?"

"I'll go and check," Ron mutters, leaving his own dinner unfinished and disappearing back into the kitchen, the subsequent muffled thumps sounding remarkably like a size 12 trainer connecting repeatedly with the fridge.

"He's made a real effort tonight," I tell the others, trying to keep the implied judgement from my voice. "He made the pie himself, you know."

Harry looks suitably guilty but Ginny just looks offended.

"I'm not going to be guilt-tripped by_ you! _Why's he even doing all the cooking in the first place?_ You're_ the one who should have made an_ effort!_ In case you've forgotten,_ Ron_ isn't the one who needs to do any_ apologising!_"

_Oh, God. I should have seen this coming. _

"I'm not - I know, and I would have, only he didn't tell me anything about it until I got home from work tonight. If I'd known he was - I mean, of course I'd -"

"Oh, I wonder why he didn't tell you! Perhaps for the same reason_ Harry_ didn't bother to tell_ me!_ Perhaps he knew you wouldn't like it!"

Harry looks suitably shamefaced at this obvious dig at him.

"No," I tell her carefully, "That's not it at all. I wanted this. I've been asking him to arrange a meeting with you and the rest of the family for weeks, in fact."

She changes tack at lightning speed. "Oh, so this whole disaster was_ your_ idea, was it?"

"No! Well..._ yes_, but -"

"Alright, Ron?" says Harry, loudly.

I stop talking. Ron is coming back, looking rather flushed from his fridge-kicking exertions and pointedly not meeting any of our eyes. He sits back down and glances nervously at his watch. Presumably the apple pie is not yet ready. We all watch him reach automatically across the table for the last bottle of wine and the corkscrew.

"What?" he snaps, seeing us all staring at him.

"How much have you had to drink?" demands Ginny.

Ron just shrugs. "Dunno. A bit."

"I think it's rather more than a_ bit!"_

"Leave it, Gin," mutters Harry, under his breath.

Her eyes flash. "_No!_ I won't leave it! Maybe_ you_ don't care what happens to him, but I_ do!_ I mean, look at the state of him!"

Harry shrugs. "Looks happy enough to me."

"He's not_ happy!"_ she shouts, furiously,_ "_If he was_ happy_ would he be trying to drown himself in red wine?"

"Maybe he's trying to drown himself so he doesn't have to listen to you shouting!" Harry yells back.

"Not tryin' drown m'self," Ron mumbles, but everyone ignores him.

"Have you forgotten what we all went through when this first happened? You've set him back two years! And you think that's for the_ best?_"

"Well, why don't you_ ask_ him?"

"Fine, I will!_ Ron!"_

Ron jumps at the sound of his name, and we all turn to look at him. He blinks in the headlights of our collective gaze. "'Least 'm gettin' laid," he says, brightly.

There is a small silence, during which I think, thank you, Ron, that was_ not_ helpful, then Harry starts to laugh.

"Well, there you go! Can't say fairer than that now, can you?"

Ginny just looks disgusted. "Yes, well, he's hardly the judge of what's best for him, is he?"

"Oh, and you are, I suppose?"

"He's my_ brother!_ Of_ course_ I want what's best for him!"

"So do I!"

"I_ am_ here," mutters Ron.

"So you think that what's best for him is to try and get him back together with the girl who dumped him in the first place, do you?"

I'm not having that. "I didn't_ dump_ him!" I protest, indignantly, "It was a misunderstanding!"

Ginny laughs. "Oh, well, that makes all the difference! It was a_ misunderstanding!_ Did you hear that, Harry? Apparently it was just a misunderstanding! Oh, well, that's alright, then!"

"Ginny -" starts Harry.

Ron stands up suddenly and we all watch him apprehensively. "Just gonna check the pudding," he mutters, and hurries into the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind him.

Ginny rounds on me, her eyes blazing. "You have no idea what you put him through, do you?"

"Of course I do."

"No. You don't."

"I do, Ginny. He's told me."

"Oh, has he?"

"Yes."

"_All_ of it?"

I nod, although a jolt goes through me at the thought that there might be more -_ worse_ - he still hasn't told me.

An expression of something like triumph flashes across her face. "And despite all that you're quite happy to put him through it all over again?"

I stare at her. "No, of course not."

"I mean, don't you think you've done enough damage for the time being?"

"He said he's fine," Harry pipes up, "He said -"

"Yes, I heard what he said!" she snaps back, "'At least I'm getting laid!' At_ least?_ What does_ that_ tell you?"

"It was a joke," I whisper, adding with a rueful smile in Harry's direction, "_I hope..."_

He grins back at me, but Ginny just snaps, "Very funny!"

"It_ was_ a_ bit_ funny..." mumbles Harry, attempting to rearrange his expression into a serious one, and I stifle a laugh.

"Oh, my_ God!_" she exclaims, "Am I the only person in this room who's taking this seriously?"

Harry tries to pat her arm soothingly but she wrenches it away. "No, of course not, Gin..."

"Look," I say, determined to remain calm, "We're all here for the same reason, aren't we?"

"Drinking ourselves stupid and getting food poisoning?" suggests Harry, helpfully.

I ignore him. "We all care about Ron."

"Huh!" Ginny spits, "_We_ do, yes!"

She sinks into her chair, exhausted, and throws back the rest of her wine angrily.

"So do I," I tell her, "Very much. It was me who wanted to see you again, in fact. I wanted a chance to explain."

"Well, go on, then."

"What?"

"Explain."

She folds her arms across her chest and waits. Across the table I see Harry surreptitiously refill his glass.

I take a deep breath. "Well -"

There is a sudden loud bang from the kitchen followed by a torrent of swearing. We all stop and stare at the closed kitchen door fearfully. Ginny starts to get to her feet but I am quicker.

"It's fine, I'll go. You stay there and finish your argu - wine..."

-----

_"Don't come in!_ Oh, it's you..."

Ron - who is quite crimson in the face and looks close to tears - is standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a square tin foil container with an apple pie in it. Or rather, the remnants of a tin foil container, with the remnants of what I can only assume was once an apple pie.

"Don't say anything!" he snaps, "I don't need it, alright?"

"I wasn't going to."

"Yeah, well, you don't need to, do you? Look at it!" He thrusts it under my nose. "Your bloody oven did that!"

I frown. "What do you mean? I thought we'd sorted out the problem with the oven. How can -" Realisation dawns. "Please, Ron, please don't tell me you put it in the microwave."

He freezes. "Well, we didn't want to be eating the pudding at half past sodding midnight, did we?" he says, defensively, "After my chicken pie disaster... I just thought this would be quicker, that's all."

He retrieves the box from the bin and shows it to me. "Look! Heat in the microwave! Two minutes! And I_ did_ that, and look what happened!"

He prods the dead apple pie with his finger tentatively, as though it might move. "It's gone all weird..."

I am having trouble not laughing. "You've never used a microwave before, have you?"

He falters. "Well... no, but... Look, it says two minutes!"

I bat away the box he is thrusting under my nose. "You're not supposed to put metal in the microwave, Ron," I tell him, as gently as I can, "It explodes."

I peer into the microwave, which is blackened and giving off the unpleasant, acrid smell of charred plastic.

"I think you've broken it."

"FUCK!" he exclaims suddenly, slamming his fist down hard on the kitchen worktop and making me jump. "Fine!_ Fine!_ I give up! I don't care anymore! Can't even cook fucking dinner without fucking it up! Well -"

He glances around wildly, grabs the nearest bottle of wine, and upends it down his throat, spilling quite a lot of it down himself but neither seeming to notice or care. He lets out a hysterical laugh, then slides down the kitchen door in a heap, still clutching the bottle of wine.

"This is the worst dinner party in the history of the_ world!"_ he giggles.

I lean back against the kitchen counter, and run my hands wearily through my hair.

"Ginny's right,_ I_ should have cooked."

"Oh, right, because you would have done a better job, I suppose!"

"No," I say gently, "Because I'm the one who needs to make it up to her, not you."

"What do you have to make it up to_ her_ for?" he sneers, "_She_ wasn't the one you_ dumped_, was she?"

I stare at him, too tired for this. "Please, Ron, just have some coffee or something and help me. What are we going to serve for pudding? We can't serve this."

He shrugs. "I could go to the corner shop."

I have visions of him catapulting down the stairs and breaking his neck.

"No," I say firmly, "You aren't going anywhere. And give me that -"

I grab the bottle from his hand before it reaches his mouth and pour the contents down the sink.

"Hey!" he protests, feebly.

I am opening cupboards frantically for something to replace the nuked dessert. "Did you get anything to have with the apple pie, Ron?"

Ron has closed his eyes and leant his head back against the kitchen door. I kick his foot. "Ron!

"Whaaat?" he whines, pulling his legs up out of my way.

"Did you get anything to have with the pie?"

"Ice-cream," he mumbles, holding his head in his hands and moaning softly. "My head hurts..."

"Well, you shouldn't have drunk so much wine, should you?"

He makes a frustrated sort of noise.

I ignore him and set about pulling bowls and spoons from the cupboard and the tub of ice cream from the freezer. It's vanilla, of course. I open the cupboards again, pointlessly hoping there will be something there to liven up our very dull pudding offering. Another low moan from Ron, whose legs have slid down across the floor again, and whose feet are resting against the units opposite the door. I turn around and look at him, still with his head in his hands, and my heart melts. I crouch down in front of him and pull his hands away from his face.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, tearfully, "I'm sorry this has been such a disaster."

I lean forward and plant a kiss in the middle of his forehead. "It doesn't matter. You meant well, and that's the most important thing."

"I thought it would help. You know, if she could see that I'm alright here..."

"I know, Ron. I know how much work you put into tonight. It's not your fault it all went - Well, anyway, thank you."

_"Thank you?"_ he exclaims incredulously, "What for?"

"For trying. And listen... I don't care what anyone else thinks,_ I_ know I love you, and that's all that matters. Ginny..." - I search my exhausted brain for the right words - "Ginny can go fuck herself."

He laughs out loud in shock, clapping his hand to his mouth.

I ruffle his hair and get stiffly to my feet again, feeling my knees crack as I do so. "Come on, we only have to do this for another half hour or so." I offer my hand to help him up too, but he doesn't take it.

"I can't do it without you," I plead. "Come on, I'll make you a cup of tea. And drink some water, or you'll have a cracker of a headache tomorrow."

"I've got a cracker of a headache_ now_," he says, smiling ruefully.

I hold my hand out again and this time he takes it, letting me pull him to his feet. He staggers slightly, grabbing my waist for support, and just about manages to remain upright. We look at each other.

"I dented your fridge," he says, in a small voice.

I bend my head into his chest, close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, then look up at him again.

"Well, fortunately, Ron, your girlfriend is a witch, so she can fix it."

"I'm sorry," he says, dolefully, "I just wanted the evening to be over. I couldn't bear to sit there for another half hour waiting for the sodding pie to cook and everyone arguing with each other. I just wanted them to go home, so I could put my pyjamas on and go to bed."

"Maybe you should."

"What, go to bed?"

"Put your pyjamas on. My uncle used to do that with guests he thought had outstayed their welcome. He'd disappear upstairs and then come back down in his pyjamas, yawning. People got the hint pretty quickly."

"Ha," he says, weakly. "Oh,_ God_. I'm too tired to even_ laugh..."_

"I tell you what, if they haven't gone home in the next half an hour,_ I'll_ go and get changed into my pyjamas, then they can blame me instead. Ginny hates me anyway, so I've got nothing to lose. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful," he mumbles.

"Ok, then. Now give me a hug."

He dutifully does so, and we stand there leaning into each other for several minutes until I remember the rapidly melting ice-cream and reluctantly let go.

"Drink two pints of water and I'll see you back out there in a couple of minutes, okay?"

"'kay," he nods.

"And don't eat any of that ice-cream, it doesn't mix well with red wine, _believe_ me..."

I take a deep breath and force a smile on my face, balance the three bowls of ice-cream in my arms, and go back out there.

-----

"Everything alright?" asks Ginny, raising her eyebrows at the suspicious appearance of only me from the kitchen.

"Fine!" I say, breezily. "Ice-cream, Harry?"

Harry, whose reactions are slowed by drink, glances up in surprise. "Eh?"

"Ice-cream?"

He frowns. "What happened to the apple pie?"

"We're having ice-cream instead."

"Can I not have pie, then?"

I am struggling to keep my temper. "No," I smile, through gritted teeth, "We're having ice-cream."

Ginny gives a derisory snort. "Did he forget to turn the oven on again?"

"No," I say, carefully, "It's -"

"Oh, give it a_ rest_, Gin!" Harry suddenly snaps.

Ginny and I both turn to stare at him, me impressed and grateful, her angry and offended.

"Excuse me?" she demands, "_What_ did you just say?"

Harry decides to pretend that nothing has happened. "What?" he asks, grinning crazily at us.

Ginny jumps to her feet, her chair scraping back, and her eyes flashing with barely suppressed fury. "Right! That's it! I've had enough! We're going home!"

"What about my ice-cream?" Harry whines.

"Come_ on!"_ she hisses, clearly in no mood to brook an argument.

Harry climbs to his feet with a massive sigh, giving me an apologetic look. Ginny refuses to even look in my direction.

Ron chooses that precise moment to amble out from the kitchen, with a cup of tea in one hand and a small plate of toast in the other. He takes in the little tableau - all three of us on our feet and clearly mid-argument - and a small bemused grin appears on his face.

"Shall I go out and come back in again?" he offers. I stifle a nervous laugh.

_"Well!"_ announces Ginny, in a high, brittle tone, "Thank you both for a_ lovely_ evening!" and she turns on her heel and heads for the door.

Harry gives us an embarrassed shrug. "Thanks. It's been... um..._ interesting.._." He hesitates. "Look, I –"

"Come_ on!"_ calls Ginny impatiently from the hall.

"Better go," Harry mumbles, raising his hand slightly in farewell and backing out of the room after her. "Sorry about... you know."

---

The door closes behind them and in the sudden, welcome silence I turn to look at Ron, who is standing there munching a piece of toast as though nothing has happened. He pulls up a chair and sits down at the debris-strewn table, and after a moment's hesitation, I sink into the chair opposite him and prise my shoes off my aching feet, stretching out my toes in relief. He pushes the plate silently across to me, and for several minutes we just sit there in silence, munching our toast, the bowls of ice-cream sitting melting and forgotten beside us. When we have finished Ron takes a few large gulps of tea to wash down his toast, and we just look at each other.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"They've gone."

"Yes, they have."

"And we're still here."

I can't help a small smile. "Yes, we are."

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly too. "Hey, Hermione?"

"What?"

"_Everything's under control..."_

We both start laughing with the sudden release of tension and for several minutes it's all we can do, we just laugh and laugh with the whole mad giddy euphoria of it until our ribs hurt and we can hardly breathe, and it is _glorious._

_-----_

----------------------------

* * *

_**Author's Note: Because... God knows we all needed a bit of light relief after the unrelenting misery that was the Two Years Earlier segment. Also, I know a lot of you wanted to see Ginny make an appearance. You cross one Weasley, you cross them all!**_

_**Do Google "Scotch egg", by the way. I'm sure the non-Brits among you will imagine it to be some kind of exotic delicacy; well, let me tell you, it's one of the finest culinary inventions of our modern age. If you ever get a chance to taste one, you won't be disappointed, I promise you. Especially dipped in Salad Cream. You might want to Google that as well...**_

_**Oh, and one last little reminder... P L E A S E . L E A V E . A . R E V I E W ! ! ! (and THEN you can go and Google "Scotch egg"...)**_

* * *


	11. Chapter 11: Fallout

_(Author's note: Firstly, I just want to say thank you so much for all your lovely reviews for Chapter 10, you really did me proud! And secondly, here, nice and promptly as promised, is Chapter 11. Can't wait to hear what you think! - PB_)

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Fallout**

---

**SATURDAY MORNING**

---

"My tongue feels weird."

I open one eye and squint at the blurry shape of Ron, leaning over me and sticking out his tongue for my perusal.

"Thuz ih ooh eir oo you?"

"Well, it's a bit black from all the red wine, but no, it looks basically normal."

"Well, it feels weird."

"How's your head?"

"Not bad, actually." He sounds surprised. "I thought I'd feel a lot worse."

"So did I. I thought I'd be up half the night holding your hair out of your eyes over the toilet."

He lies back down and squints up at the ceiling. "Is it really bright in here or is it just me?"

"It's just you."

He turns his head to look at me, an expression of concern on his face. "How are_ you_ feeling?"

I can't help laughing. "I'm fine! I wasn't drinking, remember?"

He grins. "Oh, yeah. Sensible Hermione."

I slap his arm gently. "I'm not sensible!"

He rolls over on his side to face me. "Oh, come on! You_ are _sensible! You've_ always_ been sensible! There's nothing wrong with it." He leans forward and plants a kiss on my forehead. "Better than being a drunken idiot, anyway..."

I sigh. "I just wanted to stay in control of what I said, so I could explain things properly to Ginny."

"Didn't help though, did it?"

I shake my head. "Not really."

"Oh, well." He stretches his arms out behind his head and yawns. "She'll come round eventually."

"I'm not so sure."

"Yeah, she will," he says confidently. "Harry will work on her. It'll be fine."

I consider telling him that Harry thinks this is a mistake too, but quickly decide against it. There's no way him knowing that information can possibly help the situation.

"Anyway," he jokes, grimly, "I've got five brothers, what do I need a sister for as well?"

I manage a half-laugh, half-groan. "Please... don't joke about it. I feel bad enough already."

"Aw," he says, patting my arm sympathetically, "You know what you need?"

"What?" I say, warily.

"Kissing better." He leans forward to kiss me again and I put my hand gently over his mouth.

"Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but..."

He grins. "I need to brush my teeth before I try and stick my tongue in your mouth?"

"Especially that. It really is quite black, you know."

He gives an exaggerated sigh. "Alright. Let me have another five minutes kip and then I'll get up and make some breakfast."

He puts an arm around me and pulls me to him and we lie there dozing contentedly for a few minutes.

"Right! I'm getting up!" he announces, but doesn't move. I raise a quizzical eyebrow at him.

"Alright, alright..." he laughs, "One more minute."

Another few minutes pass, and I fall into a light sleep, only to be awakened by him bouncing out of bed and pulling on some clothes.

"Going to the corner shop," he says, in what I consider to be an unnecessarily chirpy manner, "Got a real craving for sausages. How does a sausage sandwich sound?"

"Perfect," I murmur.

"Do you want anything?"

I shake my head and pull the duvet back up to my chin.

Seemingly seconds later I wake to find him crawling back into bed beside me, still fully clothed and apparently too exhausted to even take off his shoes.

"What happened?"

"I stood up," he says faintly. "Don't talk please."

"Hangover finally hit, did it?" I ask, amused.

"I feel like I've been _run_ over."

"So I take it I'm not going to get my sausage sandwich?"

A groan. "Don't talk about food."

"Oh dear. That bad, eh?"

"Worse. Could you make me a cup of tea?" he begs, "_Pleeease_... I'll love you forever..."

"Well, what woman could possibly resist an offer like that?" I joke, but it's far too early for him.

"What?"

"Never mind. One tea coming up."

"Can you put three sugars in it?"

"You sure you don't mean three aspirin?"

"What?"

"Never mind..."

* * *

**SATURDAY NIGHT**

---

We lie beside each other, grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats and trying to get our breath back. I cuddle up to him and whisper, "Can you go again?"

He laughs out loud. "Christ, woman, I've been ill, what are you trying to do, kill me?"

"You haven't been ill, you've been hungover. There's a difference. _Well?"_

He shakes his head. "Maybe in about ten minutes. Start without me if you want." He grins at me. "I'll just watch."

"You just can't take the pace anymore," I tease, lifting his arm and putting it around my shoulder.

"Don't say that. It's depressing enough that I'm still hungover from last night." He kisses the top of my head absently. "I must be getting old. I used to be able to drink anything and I was always fine in the morning."

"Well, you're in your late twenties now." I press my lips to his hand and let the soft fine hairs on his arm tickle my cheek. "It's all downhill from here, you know."

"_Mid_ twenties," he corrects.

"Twenty-six is_ late_ twenties, Ron."

"No it isn't. Twenty-_seven_ would be late twenties, twenty-_six_ is still_ mid_ twenties."

"Fine, you tell yourself that. You're still closer to thirty than twenty."

"So are you! In fact, you're closer to it than I am; you should be agreeing with me, for God's sake!"

"I'm five_ months_ closer to it than you, it hardly counts. Anyway, women get better after thirty, it's a well-known fact."

"Bollocks."

"It's true! Women don't reach their sexual peak until they're thirty-six."

He stares at me incredulously. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. It's a scientific fact."

He shakes his head. "Thirty-six! Still, I suppose at least that's something to look forward to..."

"Well it_ would_ be, except men reach theirs at about eighteen. So you'll be all worn out by then."

He looks horrified. "I bloody won't! Hang on,_ eighteen?_ But we didn't start - until I was_ nine_teen!"

I start laughing at the indignant expression on his face.

"But that means I_ missed_ it!"

I'm laughing so hard now it actually hurts. "Stop it!"

"I can't believe I missed my sexual peak!"

"Please... stop... it hurts too much..."

"It's all right for you; you've got yours to look forward to! In_ ten years_ time... all _I've_ got to look forward to is male pattern baldness and not being able to satisfy you in bed..."

"Well, you'd better make the most of it while you can now, hadn't you?" I whisper, trying to act coy and failing. (That kind of thing being much harder to pull off _after _you've just had sex with somebody.)

He gives a mirthless laugh. "What, before you lose interest and go off with a younger man? Yeah, I can just imagine you, aged thirty-six, hanging around outside the school gates and flashing your purple knickers at schoolboys..."

"Well, I've always had a thing for the younger man, as you know..."

"Hey! Only five months younger, thank you very much. God, I don't believe it, this is so unfair. You've got_ years_ to practice for your sexual peak, and us poor sods hit it early when we don't know what the hell we're doing yet and are still really rubbish at it! And half of us aren't even_ getting_ any! You tell me, Hermione, how is that fair?"

I am having trouble not laughing. "Well, look... just think of it as a special treat for you in ten years time... A wife who wants sex all the time!"

I realise as soon as the words are out of my mouth that I have said "wife", but he doesn't seem to notice, he just shakes his head.

"Yeah, except I'll be too old and shagged out by then to appreciate it."

"Aw, shame. Well, I suppose I shall just have to take a young lover... perhaps when I'm hanging around the school gates I could pick up a nice strapping young eighteen year old just hitting their sexual peak..."

"Lucky sod. Why did that never happen to me when I was at school?"

"Well, because you left school when you were_ seven_teen, but mainly because you had a_ girlfriend_, remember?"

He grins. "Oh, yeah. I wonder what happened to her."

We smile at each other and lean in for a kiss.

"You know," I murmur, tracing a line down his arm with my fingertip, "That was one of the best times of my life..."

He laughs. "What,_ school?_ No surprise there!"

"No - well,_ yes -_ but I just meant that last month and a bit of sixth year, when we were sneaking off for a snog in the girls' bathroom every five minutes. Before -"

I don't need to need to finish the sentence. We both know what I mean. Before the war started. Before people started dying and suddenly the opportunities for that kind of innocent messing around were few and far between. Not that we complained, of course. There were more important things to worry about.

We are silent for a few seconds, remembering, then he says, grinning, "It's a shame I haven't still got my old school uniform, or we could recreate the experience now. We could have a snog up against the sink and I could spend the whole time trying to decide whether to risk sticking my hand up your top..." His eyes widen. "Have you still got yours? Oh,_ God!_ Tell me you've still got yours!"

I shake my head. "Sorry. Anyway, even if I did, it wouldn't fit me anymore. I wouldn't be able to do up the buttons on the shirt."

He laughs. "Even better!"

"Your mum might have kept yours. You could ask her."

He shakes his head. "Nah, there's no point. I burnt it."

"You_ burnt_ it?"

"Yep. The day I knew I wasn't going back to school."

"Even the tie?"

"_Especially_ the tie," he grins. "I promised myself I'd never wear another tie after I left school, and so far, touch wood," - he reaches behind him and gives the bedpost a quick tap - "I haven't."

"I kept mine," I murmur, reminiscently.

_"Why?"_

"Well, you know... as a souvenir. And I thought -" I feel my face grow hot - "I don't know, I thought maybe one of our children could wear it."

Ron doesn't bat an eyelid. "Hermione. No child of mine is ever going to school wearing a tie older than they are."

I am slightly hurt. "Oh. Okay. I just thought it would be nice, that's all."

"Anyway," he teases, "How do you know they'll even be in the same House? They might be in_ Slytherin_..."

I shoot him a steely look. "Yes, they might. And we would love them just as much, whichever House they were in."

"Oh yeah, of course." A beat. "Won't happen, though."

"It might!"

"No chance, with a couple of Gryffindors for parents? It's like; my mum and dad have both got red hair, so we've all got red hair too. Stands to reason." He shudders. "God knows what sort of hair_ our_ kid would get lumbered with. Curly red hair's all right on a girl, but if it's a boy he's getting a crew-cut from birth."

"Ron!" I scold, trying not to laugh, "I think you're just going to have to accept that any child of ours is going to spend a lot of time wearing hats."

"Oh,_ God_. As though the poor kid won't have_ enough_ problems..."

"What do you mean?" I ask, warily.

"Well," he deadpans, "Obviously any kid that's a combination of us two is going to be tall... funny..._ devastatingly_ good-looking..."

I raise an eyebrow at him and he laughs.

"... brilliant at Quidditch..."

_"Obviously."_

"Not to mention an academic genius who'll come top of their year at everything... equally at home in the wizarding and Muggle worlds... gorgeous... wonderful... brilliant..."

I am suitably placated by this shameless sucking-up.

"... so obviously everyone else will_ hate_ them..." he finishes, laughing.

_"Aaargh!!" _I sit up and hit him around the head with the pillow. "You think you're so funny!"

"I_ know_ I'm funny... Ow!" He tries to grab the pillow from my hands. "Hermione, if this is supposed to be a punishment, you should probably know... having a furious naked woman hit with me a pillow is kind of having the opposite effect..."

I smile. _"Ron..."_

"What?" he says, warily.

"I think your ten minutes are well and truly up, don't you?"

A slow grin spreads across his face. "That's not the only thing that's u_-uhhhh! _Not the face! Not the face!"

* * *

**SUNDAY MORNING**

---

"Ron!" I shake his shoulder gently. "It's half past ten, shouldn't you be getting ready for Quidditch?"

He groans. "Five more minutes."

"Alright, but didn't Barry say he wanted you there for eleven so you could practice?"

Another groan. "Alright, alright..."

"Well, you know if it was up to me I'd be quite happy for you to stay here in bed with me all day..."

"_Alright!"_ He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. "God. Remind me, why did I agree to get up this early on a Sunday morning again?"

"I've absolutely no idea. Masochism?"

"Must be," he agrees, yawning. "Still, only one more week then I get three months off, woo-hoo!"

I smile. "I know. I can't wait to get you all to myself again."

He turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised. "Don't get your hopes up, first Sunday I don't have to get up for Quidditch I fully intend to sleep all day."

"Well, you _could_ do that, but I have a better idea..."

"Oh, yeah? Does it involve nudity?"

I slap him gently on the arm. "No!"

"Shame," he mutters, stifling another yawn.

"I just thought maybe we could go out for Sunday lunch somewhere, find a nice little country pub. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding..."

He groans. "Don't. I haven't had breakfast yet."

"Roast potatoes... carrots... peas... gravy..."

"Oh, _God..."_

"Apple crumble and custard for afters..."

"Stop. You're killing me. I've got to go and spend three hours on a broom now, and all I'm going to be thinking about is apple crumble. If we lose, I'm telling Barry it's all your fault."

"Talking of Barry, shouldn't you...?"

He glances at the alarm clock and sighs. "Suppose I'd better."

"Never mind. Only one more week!"

"Great..." he says, gloomily, climbing out of bed and starting to pull yesterday's clothes back on without any great enthusiasm, "Are you coming?"

I hesitate, thinking of Anna. "Do you want me to?"

"Yeah, well, I quite like having you there watching. Makes me play better. You know, to try and impress you." He laughs. "Like fifth year all over again."

"You don't have to try and impress me," I protest.

"I know," he says, dryly, "I'm _joking_. I do like you coming, though. Mainly because you don't know the rules so if I do something wrong you cheer anyway. That's always really funny..."

He imitates himself taking a wild swing at the ball and me jumping up and down on the spot and punching the air in excitement, like a cheerleader. "Woo! Yeah! Woo!"

"I don't do that!" I retort, trying not to laugh.

"No," he concedes, grinning, "You're more like this…" He puts on his poshest voice - "Oh, well played!" - and claps politely, as though at the Ladies' Final of Wimbledon. "Good show!"

I have given up on trying not to laugh now. "Ron… I am _not_ that posh…"

"You are a _bit_…"

"Ronald." I put my hands on my hips and give him my most severe frown. "Do you want me to come to this match or not?"

He hangs in head in mock-contrition. "Yes. I want you to come."

"Then you'd better stop messing around and get a move on, hadn't you, or I'll have nobody to cheer for."

"Oh, al_right_."

He comes across and leans down to kiss me goodbye. "Bye," he whispers, "See you in an hour."

"Bye," I whisper back, "Love you."

He kisses me again. "Love you more."

"Well, now," I tease, "You know that's impossible..."

He smiles. "Well, I think that calls for -"

Another kiss.

"Ron, you should -"

"I know."

And another. "Ron -"

He lets go of me with an impatient sigh. "Oh, sodding buggering _hell!"_

I shake my head. "Such a sweet-tongued boy..."

He grins. "If I wasn't so late I could have made a _really_ filthy joke there..."

"If you weren't so late, we could have had an extra half hour in bed."

He gives a low moan. "Don't tell me that now. I've got to go and spend three hours being shouted at by a fat Cockney bloke on a broom. What's the point of telling me that now?"

I smile. "One more for the road?"

It is a very soft, long and lingering kiss, and neither of us want it to end, but finally, reluctantly, we break apart, and Ron steps back from the bed, still gazing at me with longing in his eyes.

"Fuck it," he exclaims suddenly, "I'm not going."

I laugh out loud._ "What?"_

"I'll just stay here, with you."

"They'll sack you."

"So? There are other teams."

I smile. "It's a tempting offer..."

He groans. _"But..."_

"It's only for -"

"One more week, I _know_..."

* * *

**SUNDAY AFTERNOON**

---

"... so then I said, 'Listen, mate, I know they say size isn't everything, but that's ridiculous!'"

The crowded little table - seven players plus assorted hangers-on - explodes into raucous laughter, and I force the thinnest of smiles onto my face. Oh, yes, very funny. Hilarious. My sides are practically splitting.

Anna leans across the table and smashes her glass against mine. "I bet _you_ know what I mean, eh, Hermione?" She roars with laughter and nudges Ron, who is sitting next to her on the banquette, in the ribs. "She knows what I'm talking about!"

"_Actually_," says Ron, testily, "She's got no idea what you're talking about, because she's only ever been with _me_, and I've got absolutely no problems in _that_ department, thank you very much!"

"Yeah, right!" she cackles, "I bet that's what you told her. _It's a perfectly normal size!" _She holds her thumb and forefinger close together to indicate something very small. _"_Poor girl just doesn't know any better!"

"Shut up!" laughs Ron, going rather pink. "Honestly, your mind..."

"What about my mind?"

He shakes his head in mock-outrage. _"Filthy!"_

"You know it, honey!"

And they both dissolve into laughter once again.

I grit my teeth and avert my eyes from her beautiful, hateful face. I hate how he acts when he's around her. I hate that they have those kinds of conversations, and that it never seems to occur to him I might not appreciate him talking about our sex life with some strange girl. I hate what she does to _me_, too. She seems to bring out the worst in both of us. I hate _her_.

The realisation shocks me to the core. Do I really _hate_ her? Hate is a strong word. The last person I felt that strongly about was Lavender, and that was for very similar reasons, of course. Although Lavender wasn't smart and funny like Anna. Oh, God, stop it! Who is it he's just spent the whole weekend with? Who was it having pillow fights with him last night in bed? Who is he risking estrangement from his entire family to be with? It's not her, is it? I only have to put up with her presence for one more match, then after next week I never have to look at her, think about her, listen to her annoying dirty laugh ever again. Well, for the next three months anyway. He's mine and mine alone until September. One more week. I can put up with it for one more week.

"... say you were from again?"

James, the team's other Beater, is speaking to me, and I drag my eyes away from the spectacle across the table and try to focus my attention on him instead.

"Oh. Cambridge."

"Oh, right. Nice. Have you always lived there?"

"Yes, until I was twenty, then I lived in London for a few years and now I live in West Yorkshire. You're from Scotland, obviously."

"Aye, from Inverness. Do you know it at all?"

I shake my head. "Sorry. I went to school in Scotland, but I've never really explored it properly. I'd love to, though, it looks beautiful."

"You've obviously never been to Inverness," he jokes, and I smile back, grateful for the distraction.

"It's not that bad, surely?"

"No, I'm joking really. There are worse places to come from. It's just, you know, a long way away from anywhere else."

"Good thing you're a wizard, then."

"Aye, it is _now_. When I was a kid it wasn't. And besides, my parents are Muggles, so we had to get trains everywhere. Total pain at the start of term every year. Imagine getting the train all the way down to London just to get on another train going all the way back up to Scotland again."

We laugh, and I am just about to tell him that my parents are Muggles too, when a sudden movement from across the table makes me glance up.

She leans across and whispers something in his ear, her hand in front of her mouth to conceal whatever it is she is saying from the rest of us, and his eyes widen and he looks at her with a disbelieving grin, and they both burst out laughing. For a second everything in the pub seems to blur in front of my eyes until all I can see and hear are Ron and Anna laughing together, her head thrown back, her hand on his thigh. _Her hand on his thigh_. I can hardly breathe. What is she doing? Why is he letting her? Why is her hand _still there? _Far longer than necessary, if it was just a friendly...

And then the hand is gone, and the pub roars into noisy life again. James is asking me a question, Anna is talking to someone else too, and Ron is standing up and waving at a latecomer across the room. It is as though it never happened.

I feel faint. Did I really see that? I've only had one glass of wine, so I can't even blame it on the drink like last time. I feel more sober than I ever have in my life, in fact. I know what I saw. Still, it doesn't have to _mean_ anything. It doesn't have to mean... how it looked.

And when he had that big row with Ginny on his birthday and didn't come home for four nights… it doesn't mean he was with her. He probably just slept under his desk, like Harry said.

And even if he _was _with her, it doesn't mean anything happened. Even if he did _lie_ to me about it, and only admitted he'd been out clubbing with her after _she_ brought it up in _front_ of me.

And that "extra" practice he suddenly remembered he had to do at the last minute... I'm sure that really _was_ just an extra practice.

And when he accidentally let slip afterwards that he'd had a shower at her house… I'm sure it was just a perfectly normal shower because he was all hot and sweaty after practice, and not after… anything _else. _

And just because that was the night he wanted to go "home", and only ended up staying because he was too ill to leave… I'm sure that's just coincidence.

And the fact that he hasn't told Harry and Ginny about her, that doesn't have to mean anything either. It doesn't mean he's hiding anything. Harry did say they don't really talk anymore.

And just because they're clearly physically comfortable enough with each other for her to put her hand on his leg and for him to barely notice, as though it isn't even a big deal, as though he's _used_ to it… none of it has to mean anything. No, it doesn't have to mean anything at all...

---

* * *

**SUNDAY EVENING**

---

We are walking across Hackney Marshes towards the trees, looking for a quiet spot to DisApparate home, and Ron is laughing about something that happened earlier, during the match. Outwardly I am laughing too, but inside I am numb with shock, my mind turning over and over what has happened, trying to make sense of the jumble of messed-up thoughts in my head. I must have imagined it. I must be wrong. I want to be wrong. I _have_ to be wrong. He would not do that to me. He loves me, he told me so. He told me so _this morning_. I must have misunderstood what I saw. And yet – I want to grab him and shake him and scream at him to "_Just tell me the damn truth!"_ Oh, God, why _now? _We only had to get through one more week, one more match, and then it would have all been over. No more Anna. No more Anna for three whole months. I will not let her break us up. It's what she wants, what she's always wanted. I won't let it happen. But it _is_ happening… it _has_ happened… Oh, _God_...

"… worst dive I've ever seen! Seriously, I like Louis and all that, and he's tall enough for a Keeper, but he just hasn't got the skill, do you know what I mean? He makes too many mistakes. And I'm not saying I'm some sort of God of Goalkeeping or anything, but I reckon if they just gave me a shot, like a trial, they'd be able to see straight away that I'd make a much better Keeper than him. Don't you think?"

"Mmm."

"I mean, he's a nice bloke and all, but I think he'd be the first to admit he just hasn't got the reach. And I know it's not his fault, but where he grew up, in Nigeria, it was, like, this tiny village in the middle of the desert or something, and they didn't even have proper hoops! How are you supposed to practice properly if you haven't even got proper hoops?"

"Yes."

"Anna agrees with me," he goes on, and I automatically stiffen at the mention of her name, "She even offered to have a word with her dad for me, but it's not really fair, is it? Going behind the poor bloke's back. I dunno, I suppose I'll just have to hope he breaks his leg or something. But meantime we're losing matches a hundred-nil, and no-one wants to say anything because they don't want to cause ructions. Anyway, that's supposed to be Barry's job. Sometimes, when you're the manager, you just have to make unpopular decisions for the good of the whole team. It's like when Harry had to tell Dean he was off the team in sixth year, do you remember? He wasn't happy about it, but what can you do? It's not about the taking part, it's about _winning_."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, well, I suppose I've only got to put up with Louis and his terrible saves for one more week. Maybe when I come back in September he'll have improved a bit. He couldn't be much worse, let's face it." He sighs. "Be nice to win the last match of the season though. We'll just have to hope Anna catches the Snitch early. Otherwise I can see us going down a hundred-nil again, and that would just be embarrassing. I'd never be able to show my face in London ever again…"

"Mmm."

He finally notices how quiet I am and puts an arm around my shoulder, pulling me against his side, and kissing the top of my head. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," I mumble, "Just tired, that's all."

"Sorry, I'm banging on again, aren't I? You should have said something! Chuck a pillow at me next time."

I manage a weak smile.

"That's better. Come on, let's go home and I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

"Thanks."

"No problem." He starts laughing suddenly and I raise a quizzical eyebrow at him.

"What's funny?"

"Could you believe that story Anna told about that bloke she met on the night bus?"

"Oh. Yes. Hilarious."

"She's just _mental_, isn't she?" Ron chuckles, shaking his head in wonder, "Some of the stories she tells, I swear, I sometimes wonder if she's making it all up..."

"I_ know!_ If I hear her say "I went out with this bloke once" one more time, I think I'll scream! I mean, how many men has she_ had?_"

I laugh merrily and then realise that not only is Ron not laughing, but he's stopped walking and is just standing there staring at me, frowning.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I falter. "What?"

"I thought you_ liked_ Anna."

"I do," I say uneasily, "It was just a joke, that's all."

His eyes narrow. "Didn't_ sound_ like a joke."

"Well…" I don't know what else I can say. "It_ was_..."

He shakes his head. "Why don't you like her?"

"I_ do_ like her."

He makes a small sceptical noise in his throat.

"Please, Ron," I beg, dismayed, "Please... let's not argue about this."

But he won't let it go. "No, come on! What's your problem? Everyone likes Anna!"

I finally snap. "Oh, yes, of course,_ everyone_ likes_ Anna!_ Anna's wonderful! Anna's gorgeous! Anna's hilarious! Everyone likes fucking_ Anna!" _

_Including you, apparently. _

He stares at me, apparently at a loss for words. "I thought you liked her," he repeats.

"When did I say that?" I challenge.

"Well… I dunno. You never said anything…"

"I shouldn't_ need_ to say anything! Isn't it_ obvious?_"

"I'm not a fucking mind-reader, Hermione! I thought you liked her! What's wrong with her?"

"Do you really have to_ ask_, Ron?"

He falters. "I know she's a bit loud sometimes, but..."

"Oh, my_ God!_ How can you possibly not know? How stupid _are_ you?"

He frowns. "That's not - I don't - Well, why did you keep coming to watch the matches if you didn't like her? You could have stayed at home, I wouldn't have minded."

"I'm sure you wouldn't!"

He stares at me. "I wouldn't!_ You _were the one who asked if you could come with me. It's not like I'd have been mortally offended if you didn't want to come or anything. I know you don't like Quidditch."

"That's got nothing to do with it!"

"Look, if you don't want to come anymore, just say so. I won't mind."

"Oh, yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"What the fuck are you_ talking_ about?"

I shake my head angrily. "Do I really have to spell it out, Ron?"

He frowns. "Yeah, I think you do."

"You were_ flirting_ with her!"

He actually laughs. "No, I wasn't!"

"I was sitting_ right there_, Ron, I'm not stupid!"

"I know you're not! I'm telling you, I wasn't flirting with her!"

"No? What would you call it, then?"

"I was just_ talking_ to her, the same as I do all my other friends!"

"What, all those filthy little conversations about sex? You talk to your_ male_ friends about that stuff, do you?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Well…_ yeah,_ actually. What do you_ think_ we talk about when there are no women around, Hermione? Knitting patterns?"

I give a scornful laugh. "What; even you and Harry?"

"Well, no," he admits, "Not me and Harry. The guy's shacked up with my sister, for Christ's sake. That would just be weird. Hermione, seriously, I wasn't flirting with her. I promise you. Come on, you said yourself; you were sitting three feet away all afternoon. It doesn't make sense. Please, just think about it…"

"Well…" I am unsure. "She was flirting with_ you_, then."

He throws his hands up in frustration. "She wasn't!"

I glare at him.

"She_ wasn't_, Hermione, that's just how she is. She's like that with everyone. I thought she was a bit full-on as well, when I first met her, but she's alright when you get to know her. She doesn't mean anything by it."

I just shake my head, too angry to speak.

"What, you don't think I'd have noticed if she was flirting with me?"

"No. I don't think you would."

He shakes his head. "Hermione, I know I'm not exactly experienced in that department, but I think even_ I_ might have noticed if a girl was flirting with me."

I give a small false cough that sounds very much like,_ "Lavender!"_

He frowns. "Well... even if she_ was_, it doesn't make any difference, because as we've just established, I had absolutely no idea she was doing it. And in case you hadn't noticed, I've already_ got_ a girlfriend, so I wouldn't have done anything about it anyway."

He gives a helpless shrug. "I don't know what else you want me to say."

Shaking with fury, I simply turn and DisApparate on the spot and three seconds later I am turning the key in my front door when he arrives behind me and follows me into the front room, where we continue the argument with barely a pause for breath, as though we weren't suddenly two hundred miles away in a completely different county.

_"She had her hand on your leg!" _

"She didn't! What are you t-"

"I can't believe you're_ lying _about this! I saw you with my own eyes!"

"I'm not lying!"

"Ron. I_ saw_ you. She had her hand on your thigh. In broad daylight. In front of the whole pub."

"Oh,_ that_," he says, dismissively, "That was nothing. She does that to everyone."

"Oh, well, that's all right, then!" I scoff, "If she does it to _everyone!" _I take a deep breath. "Why did you mention all those personal things in front of her?"

He looks flabbergasted. "Why did I -?_ What?_"

I pull off my jacket and hurl it furiously into the nearest chair.

"It's only Anna!" he protests.

"She's a complete stranger!"

"She's my_ friend!"_

"That doesn't give you the right to tell her all sorts of things about our personal life!"

"I didn't! And what things?"

"Oh, let me think. How about you telling her I've only ever been with you?"

"But you _have!"_

"That's not the point! You had no right to tell her that! It's none of her business!"

"Well…" He shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at the carpet sulkily, like a schoolboy caught bunking off lessons. "Sorry," he mutters, grudgingly.

"Sorry? _Sorry?_"

"It was only once!"

This is patently so untrue that I temporarily struggle to find the words to express my fury, and just stare at him, aghast.

_"What?" _he mutters, sulkily. "It _was."_

_"I got in Hermione's knickers this morning, actually!"_ I imitate, repeating his own words back to him.

It takes him several seconds to remember what I'm talking about. "That was_ weeks_ ago!"

"Oh, that makes it all right, does it?"

"Anyway, you can talk, you were the one who told her about Viktor Krum!"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Oh, so it's alright for you to sit there banging on about what a great body he's got and what a fantastic shag he is, but it's not -"

"I never said any such thing, Ron, and you know it!"

"- alright for me to have a laugh with_ my_ friends now, is that it?"

"I never said that! Of course it's fine for you to have a laugh with your friends, but not at my expense, and not with_ her!_"

"She's my_ friend!"_

"She_ fancies_ you!"

"What are you_ talking_ about," he scoffs, "She doesn't _fanc_-" He stops talking abruptly. "Oh, my_ God_..." he whispers, eyes widening in sudden awful realisation, "You think I'm shagging her!"

I know immediately from the look of genuine shock on his face that I am wrong about this, but somehow I can't stop myself.

"Well,_ aren't_ you?"

He gives a howl of denial._ "No!"_

I blunder on regardless, trying to dig myself out of the pit and just making things worse. I've moved my first pawn and there's no stopping the game now. We have to keep playing to the bitter end.

"Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn't you?"

He stares at me, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally he just shakes his head in disbelief. "We're_ mates_. I don't even - I don't know what you - We're just_ friends_."

"_We_ were just friends!"

He shakes his head again. "_No_," he says, firmly. "We were_ never_ just friends."

I storm into the kitchen to get myself a much-needed drink of water and he follows me.

"You don't believe me."

I turn my back on him, concentrating on filling my glass to the very brim and drinking it down in nearly one go without even pausing for breath.

"What, you think I'm completely incapable of being friends with a girl without wanting to shag her?"

I say nothing. I do not trust myself to speak, because all the terrible thoughts in my head, everything I've kept buried within me for the last few weeks, are threatening to burst out, and I cannot let them. I _cannot. _

"She's Barry's_ daughter!"_ he says, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, "She's_ nineteen!_"

"It's not funny!"

That wipes the smile off his face. "I know it's not," he says, coolly. "It's not funny at all." He shakes his head. "Why the_ hell_," he asks, quietly, trying to keep the anger from his voice, "Would you think I'd go off and shag someone else?"

"You shagged Luna!"

The accusing words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. The look of mingled hurt and disgust on his face is almost more than I can bear. He opens and closes his mouth several times before he can find the words.

"We'd split up! I can't believe you - we'd split up!"

"I know, but -"

"You_ dumped_ me, remember?"

"I didn't d-"

"What about Jeff? You were going to sleep with him! Why is that alright but it's not alright for me to - to -"

"Because I_ didn't_ sleep with him! You_ slept_ with her! Three times!"

"_Twice_," he corrects, "It was twice."

"You said it was three times!"

"I said it was three_ nights_. Nothing happened on the last night."

"Only because she turned you down -"

"We'd SPLIT UP!" he yells, "You dumped me! What was I supposed to do, never have sex with anyone ever again?"

_Yes._

"No, of course n-"

"Then why is it_ my_ fault?"

We stare at each other, breathing heavily. Everything is unravelling and I don't know how to stop it.

"You found someone and I didn't!" I wail. I can hear the awful self-pity in my voice.

He laughs, bitterly. "I didn't_ find_ someone! I was drunk and depressed because it was the first anniversary of you_ fucking off and leaving me!_ She was there and you weren't! End of story!"

"No, you don't understand -"

"Oh, I understand all right! I understand that somehow, even though_ you_ were the one that left_ me_, this is all_ my_ fault! Ginny was right, wasn't she? I was an idiot to ever think -"

"No, Ron, listen to me, I'm trying to explain -"

"I would_ never_ have cheated on you!_ Never!_"

"I know you wouldn't!"

"Then… why…"

Hot tears are pouring down my face now. "I know it's not your fault, I know you'd never have done anything if I hadn't - but don't you understand how I feel? You slept with someone else! And I know it's pointless and self-destructive and stupid, but I can't stop thinking about it! You don't need me anymore! I need you, but you… you don't need me, and I can't bear it! And she's younger than me, and prettier, and she didn't dump you for no reason at all, and she isn't standing here crying like an idiot and - and -"

He looks quite bewildered. "Only a_ year_ younger -"

"Not Luna!_"_ I wail, "_Anna!_ She likes you, you know she does!"

He gives a shaky laugh. "Is that seriously what you're worried about? That I'm going to go off with_ Anna?_"

"It's not funny!"

"Do I look like I'm laughing? Hermione, this is mad. You're the one I -"

"I know it's not rational! Don't you think I_ know_ that? I just keep thinking about you and her together! I can't get it out of my head! You_ slept_ with her!"

"Oh, we're talking about Luna now?"

"_Yes_, we're talking about Luna!"

"It's kind of hard to keep up, to be honest."

I shove him as hard as I can and, caught off-guard, he stumbles back against the fridge with a crash.

"I'm just trying to tell you how I feel!" I scream at him, "I_ feel_ like you cheated on me, because you slept with someone else, and it doesn't matter whether we were together or not, that's what I feel, and I wish I didn't, but I can't help it! That's why I didn't sleep with - with -"

"With Jeff," he mutters, rubbing his sore elbow.

"_Yes!_ Because it felt like I was cheating on you! And you know that if it had been the other way around, you'd feel the same! It's_ different_ for us; there's never_ been_ anyone else! Other people might not care, but_ I do!_ And you would too!"

I take a deep breath. "Do you think about her?"

"Who?"

_"Luna!"_

"No, I don't_ think_ about her. I've sort of tried to block the whole thing from my head, to be honest."

"I_ mean_, do you think about her, when we - when we're in bed?"

He just stares at me, open-mouthed.

"Well, do you?"

"What, like comparing notes? This is alright, but Luna was_ much_ better!?_ No!_ No, I don't think about her when I'm with you! I thought about_ you _when I was - with_ her!_ And I only did it because I was trying to forget you, only that didn't work, did it? Because at the end of it she went back to her life and I went home and hid under my fucking duvet for two weeks, that's how much I enjoyed the experience! Ask Harry, he'll tell you!_ And_ I nearly got the sack in the process!"

"Third official warning?" I ask, as timidly as I can manage.

"That's right! So don't you_ dare_ tell me that I think about her when I'm with you!_ You're _the one I think about! You've_ always_ been the one I think about! You_ know_ that! Why the hell would you think I'd go off with someone else?"

"Because everything's changed now! _We've_ changed! Can you honestly say you still trust me after everything that's happened?"

He goes pale. "I - yes. No. I don't know."

"Well, I don't know, either! I_ used_ to know. I used to be_ certain_. But if we can't trust each other, what have we got left?"

He looks shaken. "What do you mean?"

I take a deep breath. "I'm scared you won't be able to forgive me and you'll leave. And -" I suddenly realise with a blinding flash what my other, still greater fear is - "I'm scared I won't be able to forgive_ you_ and I'll drive you away."

He laughs incredulously. "_You _won't be able to forgive_ me_? For_ what_, Hermione? For_ Luna?"_

"_Yes_, for Luna!"

"You... weren't... there!" he almost spits, "I didn't do anything wrong. I don't understand why this is such a big deal to you. I_ didn't_ cheat on you, so why do you keep acting like I did?"

"Because that's what it feels like!"

"I don't_ care_ what it feels like! I didn't do anything wrong! We'd split up! You dumped me! I've told you all this a million times, Hermione! How many_ more_ times?"

"I know all that, but -"

"Oh, my God, I might as well be banging my head against a brick wall! I tell you what, if it makes you feel any better, why don't you go off and shag Jeff or something, then we'll be even, won't we? Then you can stop feeling like you're all hard done by and maybe we can stop having this sodding conversation over and over again!"

"I don't want to shag Jeff!"

"Fine! Good! Don't shag him, then!"

"But you wouldn't care if I did?"

"Of course I would, don't be_ ridiculous..._"

"Well, then, don't you understand how it is for me?"

"It's not the same at all! We weren't together!"

"We weren't together when I kissed Viktor Krum either, but that didn't stop you going completely off the rails about it!"

"Alright, well, if we're going down_ that_ road, we weren't together when I went out with Lavender, but that didn't stop you throwing a massive sulk, refusing to talk to me for about four months, and generally being a complete_ bitch_ about it!"

"_I_ refused to talk to_ you_?_ I refused to talk to you?_ You were the one who got all upset because you were too pathetic to ask me out and you found out someone else had got in there before you! I'm always waiting around for you, aren't I? Three years I had to wait for you to_ grow up_ enough to get the nerve to ask me out! Maybe I shouldn't have bothered!"

"Yeah, well, I had to wait two years for you to fucking_ put out_, so you can shut up!"

I gasp. "Fine, well, I'm sure you won't have that problem with_ Anna!_ I'm sure she'll be only too delighted to welcome you into her bed! That's if she hasn't already!"

"Fine, well, if that's what you think, maybe I will!"

"Fine, go on, then!"

"Okay, I will!"

_"_Fine, well, maybe I'll give Jeff a call too, see if he's still up for it! Or maybe I'll sleep with my boss, what do you think? Yeah, maybe I'll get drunk and get off with my boss in an alleyway, that would be really classy, wouldn't it? My God, at least_ I_ don't have to get people_ drunk_ to get them to sleep with me! Hey, maybe I can even get a_ pay rise_ out of it, same as you did!"

I can hear the note of triumph in my voice as I hammer home the last nail in the coffin. Sometimes I say these things, and I hear myself say them, and I can't stop myself. But oh, I know how to wound. I am an expert. Fifteen years has given me enough ammunition for a million arguments. When we argue - when we_ really_ argue - that old chess game analogy about having to win comes right to the fore. I need to win, I have to beat him, whatever the cost, I will stop at nothing. And if I hate myself afterwards, what does it matter? I won. I'm top of the class. Ron is just standing there looking shell-shocked, with no comeback to my winning move, his game in tatters._ Check_. I might as well have said it aloud. He sinks back against the kitchen cabinet, gripping the edge tightly with both hands.

"What are we doing?" His voice is barely a whisper.

I am still flush with triumph and anger. "What do you_ mean_, what are we doing?"

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, then he says, quietly, "You know what, Hermione? Before I came here I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, that I couldn't be any more miserable than I was already, but_ this_... this_ is_ worse. Well, it's just as bad, anyway."

We stare at each other, shocked into silence. The weight of his words and it's implication hangs heavy upon both of us.

"What do you want to do?" he asks, with a helpless shrug.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do you want to split up, or what?"

_"No!"_

He wipes his eyes swiftly with the heel of his hand and just nods.

"Is that what_ you_ want?" I ask, scarcely daring to breathe in anticipation of his answer.

"I don't know anymore, Hermione. I didn't know you felt like this. I don't know what to do about it."

There is a long silence.

"I'm sorry," I offer, timidly.

_"_I don't care. I don't_ care_ if you're sorry. It's meaningless now. You keep saying you're sorry but you're still thinking these things. All this time, I thought we'd finally turned a corner, that there might actually be a_ chance_, and then you go and do something like_ this_..." His voice tails off into a whisper.

"I never would have cheated on you, Hermione. Whatever you think of me now, you must know that."

"I_ do_," I tell him fervently, "I_ do_ know that."

"Yeah. You_ say_ that, but... I just don't know if I believe you anymore. Or if you even believe it yourself." He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a long anguished sigh. "Maybe you're right."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "If we haven't got trust, what have we got?"

"I_ do_ trust you, Ron."

"Yeah,_ obviously_."

"Well, you don't trust me either."

"I wonder why_ that _is," he says, sarcastically - his default mode when things have become too emotionally overwhelming for him to cope with.

"We can get it back," I say, urgently, "I know we can. It'll take time, that's all. We knew it wasn't going to be easy."

He gives a sceptical grunt.

"Don't you think it's worth it?"

Another grunt.

"We were happy once, you know we were."

"Oh, I know that, do I?" he spits back, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, well, that's just great, I'll bear it in mind for the future. Always nice to have some happy memories to look back on next time you decide you want to go and get a job in Scotland or whatever."

"I don't want to go anywhere, Ron. I want to stay here, with you."

"... funny way of showing it..." he mumbles, turning away from me to get himself a glass of water at the sink.

"And you never know," I say, much more brightly than I feel, "This could turn out to be a good thing -"

"A_ good_ thing?" he exclaims, with a derisory snort.

"Well, at least now everything's out in the open."

"Yeah, I feel loads better now I know you think I'm a cheat and a liar._ Thanks_."

I choose to ignore this provocation to further argument. "Don't you think I'd go back and change things if I could?"

"Yeah, let's go back two years and you can chuck me all over again. Won't_ that_ be fun?"

"I didn't_ chuck_ you!"

"Well, that's what it_ felt_ like!"

"And you didn't cheat on me, but that's what it felt like to_ me!_"

"It's not the same thing!"

"_Why_ isn't it?"

He opens his mouth to retort then changes his mind, folding his arms angrily over his chest and biting his lip.

"Because I didn't do anything wrong," he mutters, "_You're_ the one who left."

I throw up my hands in frustration. "Oh,_ God!_ Are you going to keep on blaming me for that forever? You know I'd go back and change things if I could!"

"Why shouldn't I blame you? It's your fault, isn't it? _Everything's_ your fault!"

"Yes, Ron, everything's my fault. _You've_ never had a cross word to say to me in your life; _you've_ never made a mistake; you're completely blameless in this whole situation."

"At least I fucking bothered to come and see you," he mutters, sulkily.

"Yes, after_ two years!_ After Harry_ made_ you!"

"He didn't_ make_ me! I can make up my own mind, I'm not a kid!"

_"HA!"_

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Oh, right, yeah, 'cos you're so mature, aren't you? Running away at the first sign of trouble. I was the one who wanted to stay and sort things out, remember? But oh no,_ you_ wanted to_ make something_ of your life..." He says this with as much scorn as he can manage.

"And what's wrong with that, exactly?"

"Oh,_ nothing,_" he says, smugly.

"No, come on, you tell me: what's wrong with wanting to do something with my life rather than sitting around on my_ arse_ all day talking about _sodding Quidditch?_"

We both stop dead and stare at each other, breathing heavily, both realising at the same moment that we're having exactly the same argument we had two years ago._ All_ the same arguments. We never resolved them because I left.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, "I didn't mean that."

He gives a violent shrug. "Yeah, you did. It doesn't matter. I mean, you already think I'm a cheat and a liar, so what difference does it make if you think I'm a lazy sod as well?"

I have no answer to this. We stand there in silent misery for several long minutes, numb with the pain and shock of it all. The only sound in the tiny kitchen is the sound of the tap running, which Ron has forgotten to turn off.

"I wish I'd never bloody_ told_ you about Luna now," he mutters.

I stare at him, aghast. "We once said that we'd always be honest with each other," I tell him, my voice quivering with emotion, "Because we'd wasted so much time not admitting our feelings when we could have been together."

"Yeah, well," he says, sourly, "Sometimes, Hermione, honesty isn't the best policy."

"_What?_ How can you say that?"

"Alright. Remember about two weeks before you left you told me that every tiny little thing I said and did drove you completely insane? Do you think that helped?"

"I didn't mean that. I was angry, I -"

"I know."

"Well,_ you_ said you hated it when I was right about something! You said I gloated! I don't_ gloat!"_

"Sometimes you do."

"That's not fair."

"I'm just being_ honest_," he says, smugly.

"That's a low blow, Ron."

"That's what you told me as well. Said you were just being honest. Didn't help. Made me feel_ worse_. I was honest with you about Luna and has that helped? No. Does it makes me feel better knowing that my girlfriend thinks I'm a liar and a cheat? No, it doesn't. Sometimes, Hermione, it's just better not to know things."

"Well..." I am at a loss for words. "I don't believe that."

"No," he says, dryly, "I don't suppose you would." He rubs his face wearily and lets out a long sigh. "Christ, and to think I actually told Ginny she was wrong about you..."

"What? On Friday night, you mean? That was what you were talking about in the kitchen?"

He nods. "Told her it was going to be different this time." He gives an ironic laugh. "What an idiot_ I_ was!"

"What else did you say to her?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'd like to know."

A violent shrug. "Oh, you know, the usual rubbish." He puts on a mocking sing-songy voice. "Hermione's really sorry for what she did. Hermione really wants this to work. Hermione really loves m-"

The words die in his throat and he buries his head in his hands.

I can do nothing but watch him. For once in my life words have failed me. I do not know what to say or do. I have seen him terrified for his life, and mine. I have seen him cry from grief, and pain, and frustration and fear. I have seen him unconscious (three times) and been numb with terror that I might lose him. But_ this_... this is a thousand times worse. I caused this. I_ did_ this.

I reach out a tentative hand to try and comfort him, but he smacks it away.

"Get off me!"

"Ron, _please_... I_ am_ sorry! I_ do_ want this to work! I've never wanted anything more in my life! I told Ginny exactly the same thing. Please... we can get past this, I know we can. We both want the same thing, don't we? We both want this to work."

He just shakes his head.

_"Please_..." I beg, tears streaming down my face once more, "I _love_ you..."

He wipes his eyes furiously. "It's not enough though, is it?"

I do not know what to say. If _love_ is not enough...

He stares blankly at the floor for nearly half a minute, then he looks up at me, frowning.

"Can I ask you something?"

I nod, warily.

"Is that why you've been coming to Quidditch all this time? To keep an eye on me?"

I deny it immediately, but my guilty expression must give me away because he looks absolutely sick.

"Oh, my God! I'm such an_ idiot!_ I thought you actually wanted to watch me_ play!_"

"No, Ron, I did, I -"

"I don't believe this."

"No, you don't understand -"

He shakes his head. "I can't believe this. Why would you… how could you even think… I never even… I don't believe you…"

"Ron -"

"You must think I'm really stupid... here I was actually thinking you wanted to come along and watch me play, because you were_ interested_, and all this time all_ you_ cared about was catching me at it with Anna!_"_

_"_No, you've got it wrong, that's not -"

"Is that why you wanted to come to practice as well? It is, isn't it?_ Fuck_..."

I sink into silence. There is nothing I can say in my defence. It is indefensible.

"I don't believe this," he says again. He finally realises the tap is running and reaches across to turn it off. The sudden silence is even worse.

"The thing I still don't understand," he says, abruptly, "Is why you even think I'd have come back here in the first place if I was already seeing Anna. Why would I have bothered putting myself through all of this shit?"

I shrug unhappily. "I don't know. I thought... I thought maybe you might have wanted to get your own back or something..."

He stares at me, open-mouthed. "Get my_ own_ back?"

"No, Ron - wait - I wasn't thinking clearly, I -"

"Let me get this straight. You thought that I would actually deliberately go and shag someone else just to get you back for - for -"

"You got off with Lavender just to get me back for kissing Viktor, didn't you? Why_ shouldn't_ you do it again?"

He stares at me, apparently lost for words. "Because... because..."

_"Exactly!"_ The word comes out in something like triumph, although actually what I feel is more akin to despair.

"Because it was_ ten years ago!_" he shouts, "Because I was sixteen sodding years old and I didn't know any better! Are you seriously going to carry on punishing me for something that happened ten years ago? We weren't even together, just like we weren't together when I slept with Luna! Don't you think I wish every single day that it'd never happened? And yeah, I'm sorry it did but I'm not going to apologise for it, because you don't have any right to be upset about it! Why do you always make me feel like_ I'm_ the one who's fucked up, Hermione?_ You_ left,_ you_ fucked up, it's_ your_ fault, not mine, and I'm not going to stand here and have you make out it's all_ my_ fault, like_ I'm_ the one who screwed up this relationship!"

He takes a deep breath.

"Lavender, Luna... that was all about_ you_, Hermione! _Everything's_ about_ you!_ You_ know_I only went out with Lavender to get you back for snogging Krum, because I told you that_ myself!_ And yes, I know it was stupid, but give me a break, I'd just found out you'd kissed some other bloke, what did you expect me to do, pretend I didn't _care? _I never even_ liked_ Lavender, for God's sake! Do you really think I would have done_ anything_ with her if I thought there was the slightest chance you might actually like me back? And_ Luna_... that was all about you, too! My_ God!_ I would_ never_ have cheated on you if we were still together! I would never have done_ anything_ with Luna if you hadn't_ dumped_ me and left me on my own, and I certainly wouldn't have drunk myself stupid on vodka and got off with my boss! It's_ always_ been about you, Hermione! If you don't know that by now..."

He shakes his head. "I need some air..."

---

* * *

**MONDAY**

---

He doesn't come back that night. I wait up for him for hours, and eventually I fall asleep hunched in the armchair that faces the front door, wrapped in the duvet from our bed that still smells of him. When I awake the next morning it is with a feeling of dread and indeed, when I open my eyes, I can see that he has still not returned. The rest of the day passes in a haze. I feel like a ghost, someone who is not quite there. I work, or at least, I sit at my desk and stare at the same piece of paper for hours on end. I sit through endless meetings and remember nothing of what is said there. I jump every time a phone rings or someone speaks my name. There are no messages on my mobile - as if there would be! - but it doesn't stop my eyes darting to the little screen several times a minute. He is not waiting for me outside my office at lunchtime, or when I leave at five, and it is with a heavy heart that I head for the little alley behind our office and DisApparate home.

---

I turn the key in the lock and for half a second hope soars within me, but the room is exactly as it was when I left it this morning. His jacket is still hanging on the peg in the hall, his toothbrush is still in the bathroom, there are still biscuits in the kitchen cupboard and teacups in the sink. His rucksack is still propped up in the corner of my bedroom, its contents spilling out onto the floor, and his broomstick is still in the hall. There is a copy of the Daily Prophet open at the Sports pages lying on the armchair in the front room and a half drunk glass of water on top of the bedside table on his side of the bed. A handful of coins next to the glass, some wizard money, a five pound note, a few pennies. There is a lone navy blue sock lying stranded on the floor by the bed. I am standing there staring at it when I hear the key turn in the lock and the door open and I run into the front room to greet him. I was going to throw myself into his arms but one glimpse of his expression makes me pull up short in the doorway, and instead we just look at each other across the room.

"Hello," he says quietly.

"Hello."

_What a stupid thing to say_.

"I'm sorry."

He just nods.

"Are you….?"

_Back? Staying? Alright?_

"I want to ask you something," he says, still in that same surprisingly indifferent tone.

"Oh. Okay." I back into a chair and he comes and sits down opposite me.

"Um…"

"I'm sorry, Ron."

"Yeah."

"I don't suppose Ginny will ever forgive me now, will she?" I say, trying to make a feeble joke of it, "Did she say anything?"

"I didn't go to Ginny's."

"Where did you go then?" My voice is high and shaky. For the first time I notice he's still wearing yesterday's clothes.

He just looks at me steadily. "Well… I didn't want to go_ home_, obviously. Harry and Ginny's, I mean. Not after Friday. And I pretty much used up all my favours_ last _time, when I was sleeping on people's sofas, so I couldn't go and stay at Bill's, or Mike's or anyone's. And I couldn't think of anywhere else to go, so…"

He gives me a defiant look. "So I went to Anna's," he says, airily.

A jolt of ice goes through me. "You…" I can hardly get the words out._ "Oh."_

He continues to watch me, saying nothing.

"Did - did you…?" I don't need to finish the sentence.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it_ matters!"_

He shrugs. "Well, you obviously think I'm shagging her anyway, so what difference does it make?"

"Just tell me."

A cold smile flickers on his face. "What do_ you_ think?"

I study his face and realise, with a mounting sense of horror, that I no longer know the answer. I used to be able to read him like a book, and now I'm looking at him and I don't know any more if he is capable of such cruelty, if I made him like this, sent him into her arms. He seems to realise this too, because the icy smile crumples and his expression becomes creased with misery.

"You don't know, do you? You actually think I might have - have - just to get back at you! Oh, my _God._.."

I dare to raise my eyes to his and for a few seconds we hold each other's gaze in silent anguish.

"This isn't working, is it." He doesn't say it as a question.

He gets up and goes into the bedroom, reappearing a few minutes later with his rucksack over his shoulder.

"Well..." he says, hesitantly.

We look at each other.

"I'm sorry, Ron."

"I'm sorry, too. Oh, before I forget -"

He fishes in his pocket and pulls out my spare key, which he holds out to me on the palm of his hand, and which I cannot bring myself to take. Instead he puts it down carefully on the arm of the chair, the one he spent all night sitting in on that first long, long night all those weeks ago.

"I tried, Hermione," he says, still looking directly at me, although I cannot bear to meet his gaze. "You can't say I didn't try."

I nod. "I know."

"I'll be at Harry and Ginny's if you - Well, anyway..."

He still doesn't move. "Well..." he says, again.

I suddenly remember what Ginny said about giving it a month. It's been exactly thirty-one days. Four weeks last Friday since he came back. I told her she was wrong._ He_ told her she was wrong. Only, as it turns out,_ we_ were the ones who were wrong, weren't we?

"Bye, then," he says, abruptly. He starts to back away, towards the door.

"Oh! Wait!"

He hesitates in the doorway, his fingers frozen inches from the handle.

"What was it you wanted to ask me?"

He smiles, sadly. "You've already answered it."

He seems amazingly calm. I can't believe how calm_ I_ am. There are no tears. My eyes are as dry as deserts. There are no words. Nothing I can say will make this better. It's just the end.

---

* * *

_(Author's Note: Except it isn't_ quite_ The End just yet, you'll be pleased to know, because there are still another two chapters to go. Hope you enjoyed Chapter 11 (if "enjoyed" is the right word, ahem). _

_I am away for a week from Monday 21st to Monday 28th April, so hope to come back to lots more lovely reviews, hint hint... It's also my birthday on Thursday 24th (I am thirtymumblemumblemumble - still just about on the right side of my sexual peak, at least), so any birthday wishes, virtual Jaffa cakes, or real cash you want to send my way will be much appreciated! - PB x)_

* * *


	12. Chapter 12: Home

_(Author's note: This chapter is dedicated to my mum, who I never knew but would have very much liked to, and also to regular reviewer Diva The Divine, who thinks my chapters are too long. Sorry, Diva, This is the longest one yet! - PB x)_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Home**

---

The rest of the week passes in a haze, and then, on Saturday morning, I wake to bright sunlight piercing the curtains as if to force me awake. The second I open my eyes I remember. I understand now why Ron couldn't bear to be in our old flat on his own after I left. The emptiness, the silence, the_ absence_ of him is more than I can bear. It's only ten o'clock in the morning but a bright, noisy pub full of people and laughter looks pretty appealing right now. The whole long, lonely weekend stretches interminably ahead of me. I have to get away. I quickly shower, get dressed and pack an overnight bag, and five seconds later I am standing on the front path of the first place that comes into my head. My bolt-hole. My place of safety. The one remaining constant thing in my life._ Home_.

---

My mother opens the door and her face registers first surprise at seeing me standing there and then concern as my eyes fill with tears and I throw myself sobbing into her arms.

"What's he done now?" she asks, with slight resignation in her voice.

"N-nothing! That's just the trouble!"

She looks confused. "But -"

"He left me, Mum. He's g-gone!"

She sighs. "You'd better come in."

She steers me inside and into the kitchen, where she sits me down at the big wooden farmhouse table and lets me cry myself out before pushing a large black coffee towards me.

"I really messed up, Mum. Some of the things I said…_ Oh!" _

I crumple into tears once more and she puts an arm around my shoulder and strokes my hair gently. "When did all this happen?"

I shake my head. "Monday. We had a big row and he took his things and left."

"Monday!" She sighs. "And I suppose you've been sitting there all week on your own going over and over everything you said and coming to the worst possible conclusions, have you?"

My silence seems to tell her everything she seems to know.

"Oh dear. I really wish you'd come to me sooner, darling. Sometimes just talking about these things with another person can really help put things into perspective. Believe me, I know from first-hand experience that bottling things up never works in the long-term. Eventually, it all has to come out." She sighs. "Sometimes, darling, I think you try to take too much on your own shoulders. I suppose it's partly being an only child, feeling so much responsibility from such a young age. Sometimes I wonder if we didn't put too much pressure on you to succeed."

"No, Mum, please don't say that, it wasn't your fault. You and Dad… you've always wanted the best for me, you never made me do anything I didn't want to do. If I had children, I'd want the same for them. The best education, the best opportunities… and you didn't_ make_ me say all those things to him, did you? That was all of my own stupid doing."

"I'm sure it can't have been that bad, darling. It probably just seems that way because – well, you do have a tendency to dwell on things, you know. Make them seem worse in your head than they really are."

"Thanks!"

"Oh, darling, I didn't mean it like that! I don't want to hurt your feelings, that's the last thing I want to do. But you do tend to live inside your head a bit, you know. Over-analyse things. I know what it's like; I'm an only child myself, remember? You've got no-one of your own age within the family to talk about things with, so you talk to yourself about them. You're a thinker, that's all. There's nothing wrong with that. My smart, beautiful, wonderful daughter."

For some reason her words cause tears to well up once more and she hugs me tightly to her. "Oh, darling!"

"Your stupid, selfish, jealous daughter!"

"Hermione…"

"You should have seen his_ face_, Mum! I couldn't have said anything worse to him!"

"What_ did_ you say, if you can bear to tell me?"

"Oh, Mum, I can't, I just can't…"

"It might help."

"I accused him of sleeping with someone else."

"And he didn't?"

"No! Well… it's sort of complicated. He_ did_, but over a year ago, when we weren't together."

"You can hardly blame him for that, darling."

"I know! But I do! I do blame him!"

"But you weren't together, darling. He was perfectly free to see whomever he wanted. As were you."

"But that's just it! I didn't!"

"You didn't?"

"No!"

"Not once, in two whole years?"

I shake my head.

"Oh, darling! No wonder you were so miserable!"

We catch each other's eye and manage a sad laugh.

"So… forgive me, darling, but does that mean… you've only ever been with Ron?"

I nod, feeling my face growing red.

"Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of, darling. In fact, I think it's rather wonderful."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. It's rather romantic, isn't it? When people used to wait until marriage it happened all the time and nobody would think anything of it, but nowadays, of course… No, I think it's rather lovely. You met when you were young and you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your lives together, what's wrong with that?"

"Well… nothing, I suppose…"

"Look, darling, if it's good enough for dolphins and wood pigeons…"

I laugh, despite myself, then stop almost as suddenly. "But that's just it, Mum. It was supposed to be just the two of us and for me it still is, but for_ him_…" I stop and run my hands through my hair. "And it was someone I_ knew_, that was the worst thing! Someone we were at school with."

"He does like to fish in a shallow pond, doesn't he?" she comments, archly.

"I just couldn't stop thinking about it, picturing them together, wondering if he was thinking about her instead of me, wondering if she was _better_ than me -"

"Darling. Hermione. Listen to me. You have to let this go. It happened, and there's nothing you can do about that now. But you have to let go. If he can forgive you for leaving, you can forgive him for this, can't you?"

"I don't think he_ has_ forgiven me -"

I just shrug.

"To me, darling, it seems very obvious that he does still want to spend the rest of his life with you, or why would he even come back?"

"I don't know. And even if he_ did_… after all the things I said last week…"

"Oh, of course he does. Things don't change just because you had an argument. You can't just stop loving someone, even if you want to. Let's face it, if he still loves you enough to want to try again after two years apart, one little argument isn't going to change his mind, is it? And if I know anything at all, I know that that boy loves you very much indeed."

Tears spring to my eyes again. Oh God, he_ does_, he really does. And I threw it back in his face.

"It's not enough though, is it?"

"What isn't?"

"Love. His words, not mine."

She stares at me. "Oh, darling. I'm so sorry."

"You see?" I sob, "I drove him away, just like I knew I would. I ruined everything!"

"What else did he say?"

"What do you mean?" I sniff.

"Tell me what he said. Maybe it wasn't as bad as you think."

"It was worse."

"Well, did he say he never wanted to see you again?"

"No, but -"

"Well, then!"

"Well, then,_ what,_ Mum? He didn't exactly ask me to follow him either!"

"No, well, if you were waiting for that to happen I'd expect you to have to wait a very long time. What I'm trying to say, darling, is that when you left him, didn't you say you expected him to come after you?"

"Ye-es…"

"Well, then, don't you think he might expect the same?"

"No. I don't. It's a completely different situation."

"How is it a completely different situation?"

"What?"

"_How_ is it a completely different situation?"

I am at a loss for an answer. Surely it must be obvious. Hasn't she been listening to me at all?

"I left because leaving seemed to be the only option I had left. I thought I was doing it for the right reasons at the time. If I had known how things were going to turn out I'd never have done it."

She waits and says nothing, letting me weigh up the meaning of my words.

"It's not the same," I retort, stubbornly. "It's not the same at all."

"What did he actually_ say?"_ she persists.

I stare down into my glass and try and remember. Not much, if I'm honest. That last time... what was there to say? He went to get his things from the bedroom and he gave me back my keys and he said...

"He said I couldn't say he hadn't tried."

"Oh."

"See if you can find something positive in that one."

"I'm sorry, darling. I was trying to help, but maybe I was just interfering. You know what happened better than I do. If you say there's no hope, I'm sure it's true."

I glance at her suspiciously. "Reverse psychology only works when the person isn't aware that's what you're doing, Mum."

She gives a small sad laugh. "Well, you can't blame a woman for trying..."

"I know, and I appreciate it, really I do, but there's no point. It's over and that's all there is to it."

We look at each other.

"So that's all he said? He didn't say anything else?"

I bit my lip in frustration. "No, Mum, I've_ told_ you, he just said he was going to Harry and Ginny's and then he lef-"

She claps her hands together suddenly and with such force it makes me jump. "Well, then!" she says, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest with an air of triumph.

"Well, then,_ what_, Mum?" I ask, annoyed.

"Oh, darling, do I have to spell it out for you? He told you where he was going to be! _At Harry and Ginny's_. He wanted you to know!"

"Mum," I say, impatiently, "I think you're reading far too much into this."

"Don't you think that maybe he wants you to come after him?"

_"No,"_ I say firmly, "I don't."

"Isn't that what_ you_ wanted when you left_ him?"_

I stare at her. "I... that's different."

"Is it?"

"You don't understand."

"So tell me."

"It's not that simple, Mum. There's this other girl..._ Anna_... he says they're just friends, but..."

"You're not so sure?"

"Well... no. I don't know. I_ think_ I believe him, but..."

"Well, you either believe him or you don't. There are no half-measures on trust. How would you like it if he told you he_ thought_ he loved you?"

"That's different."

"I think you know, darling, deep inside, whether you trust him or not. If you_ do_, then there's_ hope_..."

"And if I don't...?"

"Well," she says, uneasily, "One thing at a time, eh?"

I take a gulp of my wine and contemplate the notion of trust. "I_ want_ to believe him... it's just not that easy..."

"Because of this other girl, the one from school?"

"Exactly," I nod, "If he can do it_ once_..."

"But you weren't -"

"Together, I _know_. I just mean... he knows he can get someone else now."

My mother's eyes sparkle with amusement. "And before he was under the impression that you were the only woman in the world that would have him?"

"It sounds ridiculous the way you say it, but yes, sort of. You don't understand, Mum, it's different when you've been together for as long we have and there's never been anyone else. It's almost impossible to imagine being with another person. I felt the same._ Feel_ the same. That's why I find it so hard to cope with the thought of him with Luna."

She blinks. "What?_ Luna?_ Is that a thing or a person?"

"It's a person. A girl. Well, no, a woman, really. I still think of her as being about fourteen but of course she's only a year younger than I am."

"And is she still around?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, does he still see her?"

"No, of course not, it was a one-off thing. He was drunk."

I blush, wishing I hadn't said that aloud. It seems like such a personal thing, I feel I am betraying a confidence by telling her Ron's secrets. After all, I was the only person he told, and then only under duress.

"Darling," she begins, placing a gentle hand on my forearm, "Whatever you feel about this other girl, you've got to admit that at least he was honest with you. Probably beyond the call of duty, if you ask me, but still. I mean, if it had been me, I would not have told you."

"You wouldn't?"

"God, no! What would be the point? I'm not entirely sure why he_ did_ tell you, to be honest. The boy must have a deathwish."

"Well," I admit, "He told me because I asked him to."

She throws her arms up in a gesture of disbelief. "Oh, well, in that case I stand corrected!_ You_ must have a deathwish!"

"Mum -"

"Hermione. Darling. There's such a thing as too much information, you know."

"Not for me. You know me, I want to know things. I've always been like that."

"Yes, but there's a bit of a difference between wanting to know the capital of Bulgaria and wanting to know the gory details of your ex's drunken one-stand with some girl you were friends with ten years ago! Which is precisely the point; at the time, he was your_ ex_. You have no right to hold it against him."

"Don't you think I know that? I know what I did was wrong, I know it's all my fault -"

"It's not all your fault, Hermione."

"But that doesn't make it any easier to forgive! Or_ forget_..."

I wipe furious tears from my eyes and my mum watches me intently. She sighs and pats my hand.

"Alright. Tell me about this other girl. The new one."

"_Anna_..." I sniff, "She's a_ slut_..."

I look up and see my mother's mouth is set in quiet anger, and nearly trip over my words in a vain attempt to explain myself.

"No, I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't use that word... but she really_ is_, Mum; she's had_ loads_ of boyfriends!"

My mother raises her eyebrows. "More than_ one_, you mean?"

"No, I -"

"Hermione," she says, coolly, "Just because a woman has slept with a lot of men -_ if_ she has slept with a lot of men, and may I remind you that_ you_, with your tally of_ one_, are no judge of what is "a lot" - does not mean she wants to steal yours. Or that she is the type of person who would cheat."

"She's only nineteen! I hadn't even slept with_ one_ man when I was nineteen!"

"Yes, well..._ you_ are obviously a paragon of virtue," she says, dryly. She sighs and gets to her feet, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. "Have you had any lunch? I feel a very strong need for a toasted brie baguette."

---

* * *

---

After lunch Mum decides to crack open a bottle of white wine and get out the old family albums, and we spend a few hours reminiscing over holidays past and laughing at my mother's unfortunate array of hairstyles throughout the ages.

"Oh, dear me, your father should _not_ have been allowed out in that shirt, even on holiday."

"Where is Dad today anyway?"

"He's playing badminton."

"_Badminton!"_

She laughs. "I know, it's another of his little mid-life crises."

"What happened to the golf?"

"Rained too much. Said if he was going to do exercise, he was at least going to do it in the dry. God knows how long it'll last. He's quite a sight in his_ very_ short white shorts, mind."

"_Mum!"_

"Sorry, darling, but it's true! Your father may be middle-aged, but he's still got it."

"Still got his own hair, too."

"I know, I thank the Lord every day for the good Granger genes. Ron's got all that to look forward to, of course. Isn't his father going bald?"

"Yes. Well, mostly_ gone_ by now, I'm afraid. Ron once said he hoped we'd only have daughters, so they wouldn't have to spend the whole of their twenties expecting to wake up one morning and find half their hair had fallen out overnight." I laugh, but then a pang goes through me. "_Oh_…"

My mum's face grows serious immediately. "Hermione," she warns, "No more crying, alright? You promised."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm okay, really. It's just… all those things I assumed would happen one day… marriage, kids… I suppose I just have to accept that maybe they never will now."

"For God's sake, darling, you're twenty-six, you're not_ dead!_ Have a top-up, quick, before we both shoot ourselves."

She ignores my protestations and fills my glass nearly to the brim, shaking her head in wonder. "God, that makes me feel old. How did I get to have a twenty-six year old daughter? How did I end up a sensible, married, suburban housewife?"

"Oh, Mum," I say, certain she is being disingenuous, "A suburban housewife is the_ last_ thing you are. And anyway, if that's true, why did you decide to do a five year dentistry degree?"

She laughs out loud. "Honestly? I just wanted to go to university for as long as possible, and it was either that or become a doctor. I'm not very good with death, so I chose dentistry."

She sees my sceptical expression and laughs. "Well, alright, it was really just because I had a crush on this boy who was a couple of years older than me, he was doing his A' Levels, and he was going on to university to become a dentistry student. I was sixteen, I was just on the cusp of having to decide whether to stay on and do A' Levels or leave and get a job, and it seemed to me that there was just a better class of boy at sixth form college."

"So, basically, you only stayed on at school because of a boy?"

"Honestly, darling, it's true! I only became a dentist for the men! I did no research whatsoever, I just took the same A' Levels he had done, and figured that was something I could do. I had no other ideas, it kept my parents off my back, and it gave me an escape route out of Peterborough. Not to mention that I very much liked the idea of the government paying for me to go to University for five years. Mum and Dad were delighted, of course - I mean, a_ dentist_; it's nearly as good as a doctor, isn't it?"

She laughs. "And then somehow, I still don't know how, I got a place at college, and that was it, my life just changed. It's one of those random decisions you sometimes make that turns out to change the course of your life completely. Imagine what I'd be doing now if I'd left school at sixteen!" She shudders. "It doesn't bear thinking about!"

"Maybe you'd have become a housewife after all," I say, dryly.

"You can laugh, but it might well have happened. All it would have taken would have been for some feckless idiot to get me pregnant and I'd have been stuck in a council house in Peterborough for the rest of my life, with five kids and a husband on the dole. I was going down that road. It's what everyone else did, all my friends from school. They got married, had kids - not necessarily in that order - and that was their lives. You won't remember, because you were too young, but I took you back there once, when you were still in your pushchair, and I bumped into this woman who'd been my best friend at school. She had her kids with her too - four of them, the eldest being a girl who looked about fifteen or sixteen, which was exactly the same age we'd been when we'd last seen each other. It was scary, like a window into another reality. And all I kept thinking was, because I was back in Peterborough with a baby in tow and a wedding ring on my finger;_ "She'll think I'm just like her!"_ As though it was the worst thing in the world! What a dreadful snob I was!"

She laughs, then catches sight of my sober expression and frowns. "What's the matter, darling?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. It's just me, that's all."

"Thinking about a certain red-headed young man again?"

"Actually, no. I was thinking about this other girl, and how pleased I was when I found out she worked in a pub. As though it made me _better_ than her somehow. I'm a horrible, jealous person, Mum."

"No, darling, that's not true at all -"

"Yes, it is! Look what I did to Ron! What did he ever do to deserve that?"

She reaches for my hand and clasps it in her own. "Jealousy can be a terribly destructive emotion, you know. Perhaps the most destructive emotion of all. I still remember how upset you were when Ron was going out with that other girl at school."

"Oh, Mum, that was_ years_ ago!"

"No matter, you were still completely devastated. My poor little girl… It's a good thing Ron didn't stray into my path at the time, I don't think I'd have been responsible for my actions."

"Well, if it helps, I made him suffer for it afterwards."

"That's my girl."

"And to be honest, I think going out with Lavender for six months was punishment enough."

We both laugh.

"But my point, darling, is that the whole thing happened because Ron was jealous of that nice young Bulgarian chap who liked you so much. Whatever happened to him"

"He coaches now, I believe. One of the Bulgarian teams."

She arches an eyebrow. "You_ believe?"_

"I may have read it somewhere. Don't look at me like that, I haven't seen him in about five years. He's married now, anyway."

"Shame."

"_Mum!"_

"What? I'm just saying! He was a well-built young man! If I were ten years younger… well, no, if I were_ twenty_ years younger and I hadn't met your father..."

I shake my head. "That's what Anna said."

"Anna? The girl you thought Ron was..?"

"That's her. She said – she said she wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crisps."

"_Ron?"_

"No!_ Viktor Krum!"_

Mum roars with laughter, but I frown, remembering how it was we came to be discussing Viktor in the first place.

"I should never have said anything in front of him," I say, half to myself.

"Who?"

"Ron. We were in the pub with Anna, and I – I told her I'd once dated Viktor."

"Oh, dear. I don't suppose Ron was too impressed, was he?"

"No, he wasn't. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Darling, I imagine you've probably learnt this the hard way already, but men don't want to hear about where you've been before them. They want to imagine that they are the only man you've ever had, even if it's common knowledge that you've slept with half the England team. It's a little pretence you both maintain. Men have very fragile egos, the poor wee things. They can't cope with the truth. More than that, they don't want to know. They'd rather you lied. They want to believe you're as pure as the driven, that the woman they marry is a sweet and innocent young virgin, even if she is thirty when they meet and has spent most of the last decade on her back. So, women tell a little white lie and men are happier for it."

I am reminded of something Ron said during that final argument, about honesty sometimes not being the best policy after all. That sometimes it was better not to know things.

"But I don't_ need_ to lie! He_ is_ the only person I've ever been with!"

"Yes, but he's not the only boy you've ever dated, is he? The same rule applies. Come on, an International football player, that's rather a lot to live up to for a young lad, is it?"

"_Quidditch_, Mum, and I don't see why. He knows nothing happened."

"He might well know it, but jealousy isn't exactly based on what's rational, is it? As I think you may have just discovered for yourself…"

We both fall silent.

"Mum," I say tentatively, "Can I ask you… you don't have to tell me… before Dad…?"

"Were there many others, you mean?"

I blush to my very core. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"No, I don't mind. It's rather nice, actually. We've never really had a proper woman to woman chat like this before, have we?"

I shake my head.

"Promise you won't be terribly shocked? I know you're a one-man girl..."

"Mum…"

"I'm only teasing, darling, don't mind me."

"I'm not sure I want to know now."

"Alright then, I won't tell you."

"Mum!"

"Thirteen."

I almost drop my cup in shock. "Thirteen!_ No!_ Now you_ are_ teasing me!"

"I'm not. Your father was my lucky thirteenth."

"Oh, my God."

"Are you horribly disappointed in your dear old mother?"

"No, of course not, I'm just… I just need a little time for it to sink in, that's all. Does Dad know?"

"Don't be silly. What did I just tell you about the little white lie that makes men happy? No, I just halved it. He thinks he's number six. And he still thinks that's rather a lot. Bless him," she adds, fondly.

I am still sitting in shock, shaking my head in disbelief._ "Thirteen…"_

"Darling, it might seem a lot to you, but it really isn't, you know. I was twenty-three when your father and I eventually got together, and seventeen when I first slept with a boy. That's six years. And besides, it was the early Seventies, things were a lot different then. I was _liberated!_" She says the last word with an ironic grimace.

"You must remember, there was no AIDS around then. Safe sex didn't really exist either, or else it was something married people practiced when they didn't want to have children. The Pill - you've no idea how much freedom that gave to young women of my generation. You take it for granted now, but mine were the first generation of young women who had the Pill freely available to them as soon as they were sexually active. You know what boys are like at that age, you wouldn't trust them to make you a cup of_ tea_, let alone be responsible for contraception.

And then of course, I went to college, and met a lot of very attractive, very sure of themselves young men who were very skilled at talking young women into bed. And to be honest, the young women were usually only too happy to be persuaded. Being a student was different then, too. There were no student loans, so we weren't worried about being loaded up with huge debts for the rest of our lives, we got housing benefit in the summer holidays, so we didn't have to work… Every summer whole groups of us would spend months lazing about in the garden of our richest friends' posh houses in Hampstead, or going on ridiculous jaunts to the Riviera, living on practically nothing. You could do in those days. I would have liked that for you, as well. University. The educational aspect isn't really important, it's the social aspect that really counts. Discovering who you are, learning to get on with people from lots of different social backgrounds. And that_ does_ include men, before you ask."

"Please, Mum, don't tell me you had an affair with your tutor or anything. It's such a_ cliché!"_

"Well, no…" She starts to laugh. "I didn't sleep with_ my_ tutor..."

I am horrified. "_Mum!"_

"Don't look so scandalized, darling, he wasn't married or anything like that. And besides, everyone was doing it. It was de rigueur to sleep with your tutor, or an older man, at least. You were expected to try everything. If you had told people you were saving yourself for marriage back then or you were with only one person, people would have thought there was something wrong with you. It just wasn't 'coo'l. Of course, it's easier if you're a man. The world hasn't changed that much."

She glances at me fondly. "Your father was a great steadying influence on me. He wasn't someone I'd have looked twice at usually. He was sort of on the fringes of the group. Always there, but not so as you'd actually notice. I don't think I even knew his name for the first couple of years. We only met properly because I made a fool of myself over one of his friends, and the pathetic little weasel didn't have the guts to dump me in person, he sent Andrew across to my room instead, with a cowardly little note. Of course, I was completely devastated for about five minutes. Funnily enough, neither of us can even remember his name now, isn't that awful?"

She smiles to herself.

"It was another two years before your father and I got together properly. We became – not friends, exactly, just people who said hello if we passed each other in the hall. I think I partly blamed him for what had happened with his friend. And anyway, he had a girlfriend by then and I had a boyfriend – a different one, this time – and then suddenly, in our last term…" Her face darkens and she looks incredibly sad all of a sudden. "Andrew had an offer to go and trample grapes in the South of France for a few months, he was all set up to go, had the ferry tickets ready and everything…"

She tails off, and I put a hand over hers, knowing some of the details of what happened next and wanting to offer comfort, a lump in my own throat. She looks up at me and smiles sadly.

"And then of course, three days before the end of term, my mother died._ God!_" She wipes her eyes. "Even now I can't talk about it without crying."

I get up and offer her a piece of kitchen towel.

"No, no, I'm fine. Thank you, darling."

She drains her glass and pours us both another.

"I got a phone call one night… it was so awful. Stuck there in halls on my own… We'd taken our final exams, it was nearly the end of term, most people had left already for the holidays. Everyone was so_ happy_… Andrew found me sobbing on the stairs and took me back to my room. Stayed up with me all night, listened to my hysterics, let me cry all over him, brought me endless cups of tea and bottles of wine and tissues. He was an absolute sweetheart."

"Your knight in shining armour," I murmur.

She nods and half-laughs. "My knight in a really terrible pair of brown corduroy flares. You were lucky you were young in a more sartorially forgiving decade, you know."

"Oh, I don't know, at least you didn't have to wear a brace on your teeth for most of your childhood."

"You're never going to forgive us for that, are you?"

"_No_," I say firmly, and we both laugh tearfully.

"Tell me how you got together again." I can never get enough of this story.

"Well… if it wasn't for your father I don't think I could have got through that week on my own. He drove me and all my stuff back to my parents' house, so my dad wouldn't have to come all the way down to fetch me with the funeral to arrange. And on the day he was supposed to leave for France, he was sitting beside me at my mother's funeral service, holding my hand. He knew I didn't have anyone else, you see. Sometimes, and I hope you never find this out for yourself, being an only child can be a terrible burden. I couldn't talk to my dad about how I was feeling, because he was too caught up in his own grief, and apart from him the only family I had was my Aunty Polly who never married, and mum's brother Stan, who was a confirmed bachelor. Probably gay, actually, but no-one ever talked about it. No cousins, all my university friends were off on their holidays or scattered halfway across the country… Andrew was the only one I could talk to."

She sighs deeply.

"And then of course once the funeral was over, I had to find a job, find somewhere to live. I couldn't stay in halls anymore and I _certainly_ wasn't going to go back and live with Dad again. I knew that the second I stepped through the door. To go back home after living away for so long... it would have killed me. I really felt as though I had nothing and no-one in the whole world. Andrew managed to find somewhere for us to stay; one room in a big old rambling Georgian house in Camden with no hot water, and some very noisy mice. He borrowed it from one of his friends who he was supposed to have gone to the South of France with. I think it may have been a squat, actually. I had the bed and he was a perfect gentleman and slept on the settee. Well... at_ first_…" She breaks into a mischievous grin.

I feign shock. "You mean you didn't wait until you were married?!"

"Says Miss Living In Sin For Seven Years…"

We both laugh.

"Oh, well, at least I didn't wear white at the wedding. I may be a slut, but at least I'm not a hypocrite…"

"Don't say that, you're not a – a slut. That's a horrible thing to say."

"I know, darling, I'm just kidding. And to be frank, I almost wish I_ had_ worn white at the wedding. Better that than the paisley trouser suit and big floppy hat. You wouldn't even know that punk had happened."

"I think you look lovely in those photos. You both look so happy."

She smiles. "We were. I thought I was being terribly revolutionary, you know. Getting married in trousers! I really thought I was the bees-knees. I thought I was Bianca Jagger. Of course, Bianca bloody Jagger didn't get married in a small registry office in Norwich and have the reception in a room above a pub with swirly patterned carpets and wood panelling. Oh, you should have seen the look your Nana Granger gave me. Honestly, you'd think I'd turned up in a bikini. Still, I suppose that's a mother-in-law's job, to disapprove of her son's choice of wife. No woman will ever quite be good enough for her little boy. Look at Princess Diana. All the trouble she had with_ her_ in-laws."

"I always thought you got on well with Nana?"

"Oh, well, I did... eventually. We came to an understanding. She wouldn't complain about my cooking and I wouldn't actually care whether she liked me or not. I think it would be fairer to say that we tolerated each other. I was quite glad sometimes that they lived right on the other side of the country from us. Funnily enough, I did actually come to quite like the old bat towards the end of her life. She mellowed quite a bit after Andrew's father died. She started going out a bit more, meeting new friends, going to the bingo, going dancing. I hate to say it, but I don't think it was a terribly happy marriage. Andrew always thought it might have been a shotgun wedding, but of course they never actually talked about that. Let's just say your Uncle Peter was a surprisingly_ premature_ baby…"

She sighs. "It's a terrible shame, really. There was always that sense of resentment, I felt, that she had been pushed into something she didn't want, and she had no way of escape. People didn't get divorced in those days. It just wasn't done. And anyway, she wasn't that type of person. She was always a bit of a martyr, a suffer in silence kind of woman. She affects Nana's Bristol accent: 'Oh, don't mind me, I'll finish the washing up, you go and put your feet up'. "

We both laugh out loud at this perfect summation of Nana Granger's way of talking and she shakes her head.

"I'm sorry, darling, I know you loved Nana, I don't want to trample on your memories."

I stare down into my glass, more recent memories coming to the fore once again.

"Do you think Nana would have liked Ron?"

"I think she'd have liked anyone who made you happy. He_ does_ make you happy, doesn't he?"

"Most of the time."

"Most of the time, darling, is more than most people can ever hope for."

"I know. But all_ I_ do is make him_ un_happy. Ginny was right, he should never have come back."

"Ginny? His sister?"

I nod. "She told him he was an idiot for giving me a second chance. Said I'd only break his heart again. And she was right, wasn't she? I did."

"Darling, I'm sure that however much he's hurting, you're hurting at least twice as much. You really need to stop punishing yourself. It's not helping either of you. You still love him, don't you?"

I swallow hard. "Yes."

"And he still loves you?"

"I - yes, I think so."

"Oh, of course he does!"

"Doesn't mean he's going to forgive me, though."

"Yes, but that's my point, darling. If he still loves you enough to want to try again after two years apart, doesn't that prove he's willing to at least_ try_ and forgive you?"

I shrug unhappily. "Maybe."

"And don't you think that the least you can do in return is try to forgive_ him_?"

I bristle. "Because it's my_ fault_, you mean?"

"No," she says gently, "I just mean, you both have to make concessions. Stop blaming each other. Stop blaming yourselves."

"He doesn't blame himself. He thinks he's entirely in the right and that everything's my fault. Everyone does."

"I don't."

"No offence, Mum, but that's not exactly helping right now."

"Well, it should. You need someone on your side. If I'd had someone to talk to when... well, it can help, that's all."

"I wish I'd talked to you about all this _last_ time."

"I wish you had, too, but there you go, you're an Allerton, you come from a long line of headstrong women. We always think we know best."

We both laugh tearfully.

"Tell me about Nana Allerton again," I ask, wanting to keep this connection between us alive for as long as I can.

She smiles slightly. "There are a lot of things I wish I'd asked her while I had the chance. About marriage, and children... and_ men_, of course. Of course, like every young person in the history of the world, we thought our generation was the first to discover sex, that there was nothing our parents could teach us. I suppose there was some truth to it; they'd lived through the war and rationing, we took all our new freedoms for granted. We didn't seem to be grateful enough, and we thought they were just resentful that we were having so much fun. I'm sure they imagined me going off to London and going to lots of "swinging" parties with Jimi Hendrix and The Beatles. It wasn't swinging in Peterborough, I can tell you. In Peterborough it was still about 1948."

She cackles with laughter.

"Of course, since I was studying to be a_ dentist_, they could hardly complain. A nice, respectable middle-class profession, even for a_ girl_." Her face grows melancholy once again. "She never saw me graduate, of course. You know I didn't go to the ceremony?"

"What?_ No!_ Why on earth not?" I can't imagine not going to my own graduation ceremony, if I'd had the opportunity. Unfortunately, since I didn't go to university, and the school graduation ceremony was cancelled because of the war, I didn't get the chance.

She shrugs. "It was only a couple of months after she'd died. I just... couldn't face it, I suppose. I didn't even tell Dad it was happening, and he wouldn't have known there even was such a thing, so he didn't ask about it. I just threw the letter away. Andrew tried to persuade me to go, of course. Actually, I told him I_ would_, just so he would stop pestering me about it, but I never had any intention of going. I told him I was going to have my hair cut in the morning and I'd meet him there, and instead I got a train to Peterborough and went to visit mum's grave." She gives a hollow laugh. "I didn't even go and see Dad. I was half a mile from the house and I didn't even go and see him. I didn't_ want_ to see him. Things with Dad got somewhat difficult after Mum died. He didn't want to talk about her anymore. He'd taken down her picture. It was as though she'd never existed. I couldn't bear to go back to that house. I think I felt guilty, too. I'd hardly been back to see them since I'd moved to London - it had taken me eighteen years to get away from the bloody place, why the hell would I want to go back? And then she died, and I never got the chance."

I squeeze her hand sympathetically and she takes a deep breath to calm herself and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

"Anyway, then Andrew got offered a practice in Norwich, and I went with him. He supported me for a few months until I got a job of my own - not very feminist of me, I know, living off a man..."

I say nothing. I can't imagine my pride letting me live off Ron - especially on his salary - but then, isn't that what couples_ do?_ Support each other? If he was unemployed for a few weeks or months, I would think nothing of supporting_ him_. Not that he would let me, of course. I imagine he would take any job, no matter how lowly or badly paid, just to avoid "sponging" off of anyone. He would sweep the streets if he had to. For God's sake, he slept under his_ desk_ rather than accept help from his own family. Ron and his stupid pride.

"Did you always know you'd marry Dad? You lived together for a couple of years before you got married, didn't you?"

She nods. "Honestly, I didn't think about it. Marriage was the last thing on my mind. Besides, I thought I was a terribly modern young woman, and marriage was something my parents' generation did. We were going to co-habit! You may laugh, but even as late as 1973 it was still somewhat frowned on. Especially if you were a middle class girl from a nice family. Fortunately I didn't care what my family thought, and thank God, Andrew didn't either, otherwise I don't think our relationship would have survived that first meeting with his mother." She gives a throaty laugh.

"Why, was it that bad?"

"Worse!"

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. I accidentally swore in front of her twice, that didn't help. But I think she'd already made up her mind before she even met me, to be honest. She had her suspicions that we were, how shall I put it -_ shacked up_ together - despite Andrew and I pretending otherwise, and she was certain that I was some sort of London hussy leading her little boy astray."

I can't help laughing._ "Hussy?!"_

"Well, you know, some sort of forward modern type. She thought trousers on a woman were indecent. Called them_ slacks_. I think she thought that the wearing of slacks was a sure sign of slack morals." She laughs uproariously. "I remember she asked me what my parents did and I told her they were both dead. Of course, that one came back to haunt me when she met my dad four years later at the wedding..."

"Why on earth did you tell her they were _dead?" _

"I don't know. Panic? I just didn't want to talk about it. It was still too raw. I didn't want her asking all sorts of personal questions. It worked, too: she changed the subject pretty quickly after that, funnily enough. Unfortunately it meant she could concentrate entirely on me and my thorough unsuitability as a daughter-in-law. The thing was, as far as I was concerned, I'd never had a relationship that had lasted more than three months before, so it was all new territory to me. I had no expectations that Andrew and I would still be together six months, a year, ten years down the line, so I'm afraid I didn't take the whole meeting his mum thing terribly seriously. I certainly didn't think for a moment we'd still be here nearly thirty years later. If I_ had_... well, maybe I might have made more of an effort with his mother. Worn something nice, watched my language, that kind of thing. I wouldn't have let her catch me pinching his bottom in the kitchen, for a start."

I am laughing so much now I get the hiccoughs and she starts laughing at me laughing.

"We didn't stay the night, needless to say. Andrew drove all the way back down the M4 and we ended up getting home about two in the morning. I've never been more grateful to get home in my life!"

"What did Granddad Allerton think of Dad?" I ask, when I have recovered.

"I've no idea. He wasn't the most forthcoming of men before my mother died, but_ after_... No, we went up there a couple of times before we were married, and of course he came to the wedding, but to be honest, I didn't really_ care_ what he thought of Andrew. I would have cared what_ Mum_ thought, if she was still alive, but_ Dad_... I think the only remotely personal thing he ever said about him was the usual father-of-the-bride speech about how grateful he was to have me taken off his hands at last, ha ha. I suppose he thought that was the kind of thing you were supposed to say on these occasions. I'd been living away from home for over ten years at that point, so it was hardly appropriate. We were practically strangers by then. I only invited him in the first place because Andrew was so horrified that I'd even suggested_ not_ inviting him. If it had been up to me it would have been just the two of us and a couple of friends as witnesses, and then off to the French Alps for the honeymoon, which in any case, was always the part I was_ really_ looking forward to... Don't get me wrong, darling, the wedding was wonderful, it was just... without Mum there, you know... I just couldn't wait to get away. That was the best bit, the bit I remember most - just Andrew and I alone together in our little red 1975 Austin Allegro, driving down to Dover in a hailstorm with Fleetwood Mac on the 8-track..."

She goes all misty-eyed at the memory and I smile to myself. It's hard to imagine your parents young, as though they'd been born middle-aged and fully-formed. They've always been active, young-at-heart parents, though. Dad's always been into his music and gadgets (latest project: uploading his entire collection of vinyl records onto his new ipod), and Mum's just one of those people who's the life and soul of any party. Dad keeps her grounded; she takes him out of himself. It works.

"I can't imagine getting married without_ you_ there," I muse.

"Well, I should hope not!" she jokes, "How many other opportunities am I going to get to wear a big hat and enjoy having a good weep? You're an only child, it's your_ duty_ to provide your parents with a nice big white wedding!" She leans across and rubs my arm. "Don't worry, darling, I'm just joking. Of course we'd like to see you happily married, but only if that's what_ you_ want. The most important thing is that you're_ happy_. Be happily single, if you want! Live happily in sin for the rest of your life. Don't just do it because you think that's the right thing to do, or because other people think you should. Do it because you_ want to_."

She swirls the dregs of her wine around her glass and glances sideways at me.

"_Do_ you want to?"

I don't know what to say. I have no answer to that question.

"You were together a long time."

"I know, and I think that was partly the problem. People kept saying to us, "It'll be you next," as though it was automatically our turn because we'd been together so long. "Might as well make it legal," that kind of thing. It just felt... like a lot of pressure."

"And you didn't want to get married?"

"Well..._ yes_... Just not_ yet_, that's all. I was too young. I_ still_ feel too young. I know that's ridiculous - twenty six is a perfectly normal age to get married and of course if I'd have been born a couple of centuries ago we wouldn't be having this conversation because if you weren't married by your late teens you were practically on the shelf, but..."

"Yes, well, that was also a time when the average life expectancy was about thirty-seven, so I wouldn't beat yourself up about it. And it's not ridiculous. I wouldn't have wanted to get married at your age, either."

"You got married at twenty-nine, Mum, that's not much older than me."

"No, but it was a different time. Everyone got married. It was just what you did. Nowadays you can cohabit for twenty-odd years and no-one bats an eyelid."

"It's not that I have an objection to marriage per se... I mean, I don't think it's an outdated institution or anything like that. I don't know, I think it was just that everyone kept going on about it and made it into more of a big deal than it should have been. It was coming up for five years since we'd moved in together, it felt like a bit of a milestone, a couple of people had joked that I could probably expect a big ring on my finger... It shouldn't be about that, should it? It should just be about two people who love each other and want to spend the rest of their lives together."

"Yes, it should," she agrees. "What did Ron think about all this?"

"I don't know," I have to admit, "I think he'd have been quite happy to get married, but he was quite happy with the status quo too. He doesn't like change that much."

"Did you never discuss it?"

"Yes, of course. I mean, we talked about it. How many children we might have, that kind of thing. He said as long as it was less than seven he didn't mind, and I said - you know, being an only child - that as long as it was more than one_ I_ didn't mind, and he laughed and said maybe we should split the difference and have three and a half. Three and a dog, he said. He's always wanted a dog." I sigh, and shake my head to bring myself back to the topic in hand. "But it was always in the future. You know, something that would happen one day, but not for a while."

"Did he never ask?"

I swallow hard. "Um... once he did. Sort of. Not properly. I said no. I wasn't ready to settle down and be a housewife_ just_ yet."

The last sentence comes out a lot more harshly than I'd intended, and my mother sucks her breath in through her teeth in disapproval.

"It doesn't have to mean the end of all your other plans. It_ is_ possible to be married and have children and not suddenly only care about babies and nappies and cleaning, you know."

"I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"You can be whoever you want to be, you're the same person, just with a ring on your finger. You and Ron have been together so long, what do you expect to change, exactly?"

"I don't know. I suppose... I suppose I expect_ me_ to change..." I sigh and rotate my shoulders, feeling the muscles strain. We have been sitting here at this table for a long time. "Anyway, I don't know why we're talking about all this in the present tense. It's not really an issue anymore, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

I shrug. "Well, it's not like he's coming back."

She watches me thoughtfully for a few moments.

"Can I ask you something, darling?"

I nod.

"Well," she starts, hesitantly, "I just wonder if you've considered how you might feel if the situation had been reversed. If he had been the one to leave. Would you still want him back? Would you be able to forgive him?"

"I… I don't know."

Would I? If things had been the other way around, if he had left me, I would not – could not – have forgiven him, I know that for certain. If he had left me, that would have been it, there would have been no second chances. I would not have taken him back. All I thought about was how it made _me_ feel, I never really considered how he must have felt about all this. Perhaps he is just more forgiving than I am. Perhaps – and the thought makes my blood run cold – perhaps he loves me more than I love him. Perhaps I'm just incapable of loving someone else that much.

I voice this last thought aloud and my mother's face crumples in dismay. "No, darling, please don't think that! That's just not true, not even remotely. You're a very loving, wonderful person. It's_ because_ you care so much that you're in this mess."

"But Ron would never have put me through this, I'm sure of it. He would never have left me, never have cheated on me."

"And nor would you, remember? You still haven't. Don't you think maybe the reason you didn't find anyone, even for one night, in all that time apart, is because you were still in love with Ron and hoped in your heart that he might come back?"

"P-probably. But it still doesn't change the fact that I'm the one who left. It's my fault all of this happened. How can he ever forgive me for that? How can I ever forgive_ myself?"_

"Oh, darling. You can't think like that. Guilt can be a terribly destructive thing. I know myself. You have to let it go."

"How? How can I let it go? I can't just pretend it never happened!"

"I'm not suggesting you do. That would be impossible, for both of you. But unless you can learn to let go of the guilt, you haven't a chance. You won't forget, but at least you'll be able to carry on. You have to forgive_ yourself._ Oh,_ God!"_

Her voice breaks and to my shock and dismay I see that fat tears are rolling down her cheeks.

"Mum? What's wrong?"

She shakes her head and take a quick gulp of her wine. "It's nothing, just... memories, that's all. Maybe... maybe it's time I told you. It might help."

"Mum, what are you talking about? You're scaring me now."

She takes another gulp of wine, for courage, and looks me straight in the eye. "I left your father once."

_"What?" _

I stare at her in stunned disbelief. I had no idea what I expected her to say, but whatever it was, it wasn't_ that._ I have so many questions, I barely know where to start.

"When was this?" I croak.

"It was a long time ago. You were just a baby. I'm sorry, darling. I let you down. I let you both down."

This is getting worse and worse. I can't take it all in. "You left us when I was just a_ baby?_ Why? Why would you_ do_ something like that?"

She wipes her eyes swiftly with the backs of her hands. "I don't really know. You were five months old, I was on maternity leave, I was stuck at home with the baby all day with no-one to talk to. I didn't know what had happened to my life. I'd got married, got pregnant almost immediately, and had a child, all in the space of twelve months. Only a year before I'd been working at a job I loved, going out, seeing friends... now suddenly I was stuck at home with a baby and I didn't know what to do."

She shakes her head.

"I mean,_ literally_, I didn't know what I was doing. I'd never been around babies in my life. Andrew had bought all the books but they all seemed to give conflicting advice, and there was no-one I could ask for help. I had no siblings, no nieces or nephews, my mother wasn't around anymore, your Nana was on the other side of the country in Bristol... even if I could have swallowed my pride and asked her for help, she was too far away to be of any practical use. My other friends who had children were all attractive, confident, independent women who'd made a success of their careers and now they seemed to be making a success of motherhood too. They were always talking about little Sarah who always slept through the night, and how little Jason had said his first word, and how now they'd had their babies they really felt fulfilled as women. And I_ didn't_ feel like that, not at all. I felt like a failure."

"Oh, Mum..." I whisper.

"And I was just so_ tired_ all the time. You wouldn't stop crying. You didn't sleep through the night until you were eight months old. So, of course, I wasn't getting any sleep either."

"But surely you and Dad must have taken turns to get up in the night?"

She nods. "But because I knew it was only going to be an hour before you woke up again, I could never get back to sleep. I'd lie there listening for the slightest sound. I don't suppose I slept more than a few hours each night for that whole first five months. Once, I took you to the park, and I fell asleep on the swings, and this woman woke me up and told me I didn't deserve to have children and that anybody could have taken you, and next time she'd call social services. I was terrified I'd let something awful happen to you. I'd catch myself screaming at you to stop crying. I felt like a terrible mother. I honestly thought I was losing my mind."

I am on the verge of tears now myself. "It sounds like post-natal depression, Mum, you can't possibly blame yourself for something like that. It's a medical condition, it wasn't your fault."

"Easy enough to say that now. This was 1980, there was a lot less awareness of that kind of thing then. You were expected to just get on with it. And it doesn't stop me feeling any less guilty about it. It wasn't your fault, either; you didn't deserve to be left on your own. Nor did your father."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I just snapped one day. I packed an overnight bag and left you with a neighbour and I went and booked myself into a hotel for the night. I just wanted to_ sleep_. Your poor father must have been frantic. I had the sense to ring him at least, although I was such a coward I left a message on his office answerphone when I knew he would have already left for home. This was in the days before mobile phones, of course, so he had no way of getting hold of me, of knowing where I was."

"What did you say?"

"In the message?"

I nod.

She shrugged. "I'm afraid I've no idea. I wasn't thinking straight. He told me afterwards that all I'd said was that I'd gone away and I was alright and I would ring him again in a few days. Can you imagine? I didn't even tell him where I was. All the things that must have gone through his mind. It was so selfish of me. And you must have been so frightened, wondering where your Mummy was."

"I was too young, I don't remember."

"You'd have been aware at the time, though. You'd have known something was wrong. Babies pick up on these things."

I don't know what to say. "How... how long were you gone for?"

The tears well up again. "A-about fi-ive weeks."

"Five weeks! Where did you go? Did you stay in the hotel all that time?"

"No. I realised that if I stayed in town, someone might recognise me. I got a train to the coast and found a little one-room B & B in this windswept little village on the edge of the North Sea. It was early March, and it was terrible weather, absolutely freezing. I'd only brought enough clothes with me for a few days and I hadn't thought to bring a waterproof coat. I just walked. Along the sand dunes, for miles and miles."

_Early March 1980. When Ron was born. I feel a sudden need for him to be here by my side, holding my hand as these revelations unfold. For his support, for the abandoned baby I was, and it's ridiculous, insane, of course the timing's just a coincidence, but that connection... Everything always comes back to him, for me._

"There's something about standing on the edge of the sea," she says dreamily, "It's like your life, all your problems, are literally behind you and in front of you there's just nothingness, stretching out to the horizon as far as you can see. It's a good place to put things into perspective. To really think about what you want from life. Only eventually, you have to turn around and face your problems again. You have to go back."

I have to ask. "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn't come back?"

She shakes her head vehemently. "No._ Never_. I couldn't allow myself to. I could never have left you._ Would_ never have left you, if I'd been in my right mind. You'll understand, once you have a child of your own. I would never have been happy again."

"You might have met someone else, had another family." I know my constant questions are painful for her to answer, but I have to ask them. I have to know.

"No," she says softly, and her voice is almost a whisper, "No, I couldn't have done that._ You're_ my family. I think I would have felt... that I didn't deserve to find happiness, somehow. Guilt is a terrible thing, Hermione. I think it took me about nine years to come to terms with what I'd done, but you never lose the guilt. What I put your father through... I'm so grateful for both of you. Every day."

Tears come to her eyes once more, and I look quickly away, down into my glass. "So what happened? What made you come back?"

She takes a long drink of her wine. "I don't know. I finally got some sleep, had some time to think about things. I spoke to your father on the phone a couple of times. He wanted me to come home but I wasn't ready. I missed both of you so much but I was afraid that if I came back it would all just start happening again..."

She tails off, lost in the memory. "I was just so ashamed. I was a thirty year old woman, not a young girl of seventeen. I was a _dentist_, for God's sake! I should have been able to cope."

"You were ill, Mum."

"I should have been able to cope," she repeats hollowly.

I get to my feet and put my arms around her shoulders and hug her tightly, stroking her hair. It is the first time I have ever comforted my mother in this way, the first time I have ever seen my strong, independent, usually so full of life mother lose control like this. Eventually she lets go of me, pushes me gently away, and wipes her eyes.

"I'm alright now. I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly. How many times have I cried on _your_ shoulder?"

She manages a tearful laugh. "Hundreds."

We smile at each other, then her face grows serious and she reaches across and takes my hands in hers. "Don't give up on him," she whispers, "Promise me you won't?"

"Mum," I say firmly, "We're talking about _you_ now, remember? That can wait."

She nods vaguely, her mind clearly miles and years away from this room.

"He came to see me," she says.

"Dad?"

Another nod. "We'd been speaking on the phone almost every day, and I finally let him drive up to see me. It had been over a month by then. We sat on a bench on the prom and just talked. He said he'd get me help, whatever I wanted, as long as I came home. He... he cried, and he told me how much you both needed me. I was still producing milk, you see. It was a constant reminder that I should be with my child, not hiding away up there feeling sorry for myself. He kept saying it, over and over. 'We need you.' I kept trying to tell him you'd both be better off without me, and he kept telling me that wasn't my decision to make. He said he wouldn't go home without me, so I had to let him stay the night, although I didn't want him to. Both of us of lying together in one bed, with our baby asleep between us. I remember lying awake listening to the sound of my family breathing and realising, for the first time, I think, 'This is my family. We're a family now. I'm not on my own anymore.'"

She shakes her head, unable to carry on.

"He came after you."

She nods.

"And you went back."

"And I went back. I was lucky, we could afford a part-time nanny. I went back to work two days a week, I got prescribed some heavy-duty anti-depressants, and bit by bit, things started to feel normal again. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't quick, but it did get better." She sighs. "It's why you're an only child. I was so afraid it might happen again and that this time we wouldn't be able to get past it, or I'd hurt the baby. Later, when it was much too late, I sometimes wished we had had another child, but for me the risk was too great. Your dad understood that. I'm sure he'd have liked more children, but we had you, and he had his wife back, and he didn't want to risk losing it all again. We haven't talked about it in years. I never told anyone, only an old friend I don't even see anymore. I always suspected that was another reason your Nana Granger didn't really like me. She felt I wasn't natural mother material." She gives a small unhappy laugh. "That I was 'unhinged.' Can't say I blame her, I suppose. I broke her baby boy's heart and abandoned her grandchild. That's pretty unforgivable in anyone's book."

I am shocked. "But it wasn't your fault! You were ill!"

She shakes her head. "Yes, but I was ill in a way she didn't understand. I heard her and Andrew arguing about it once, the first time we visited her after it had happened. She said I should be put away for my own good. She called me 'sick in the head'. Andrew was furious. I'd never seen him so angry. I don't think I've seen him so angry about anything before or since, not in thirty years. You know your dad, he's very laidback about things." She gives a small sad smile. "I'm the excitable one."

"So that's where I get it from," I joke, in a very Ron-like attempt to lighten the situation and stop the tears from falling.

"Yes, well," she smiles, "You have someone who fights back. It's rather hard to argue with someone who never gets angry about anything." Her expression softens and I suddenly know exactly what she is going to say before she opens her mouth.

"Darling -"

"_No_, Mum. I don't want to talk about Ro-" My voice breaks and I choke on the word. "Ron."

"Fine," she says, briskly, "So why did you come?"

I look up, hurt. "To see you, of course."

"So it wasn't that you just couldn't bear to be in the flat on your own, then?"

A jolt goes through me. How did she know? "_No," _I mutter unconvincingly, avoiding her eyes.

She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. "Stop it now, Hermione. You need to talk about this with someone. Bottling things up never did anyone any good. You need to let it out."

I can't keep it in any longer. Given permission, my body starts to shake and I dissolve into tears.

"What am I going to do without him, Mum?"

"Well... you'll _survive_. You survived two years without him, didn't you?"

"Barely."

"And you'll do it again. It'll hurt for a while, but eventually you'll get over him and meet someone else."

"Meet someone _else?" _I exclaim, incredulously, pulling away from her.

"Contrary to popular belief, Ron isn't the only man in the world, you know."

I give a watery smile. "He is to me."

"Have you told him that?"

"Of course I have!"

"In those exact words?"

"Well, no," I admit, "Maybe not in those exact words. But he should know that by now._ I'm_ not the one who slept with somebody else. He knows there's never been anyone else for me."

"No, darling, you're missing the point. He might know you've never _slept_ with anyone else, but that doesn't automatically mean he knows he's the only one you want. The only_ thing_ you want, I should say."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... you left him, didn't you?"

"Not for someone else!"

"No, not for someone else. But you still left for a_ reason_, and that reason is his competition. Whether it's another man, or a job, or because you wanted to be independent, it doesn't really matter. He needs to know he is more important to you than anything else."

_"_He_ is!"_ I protest.

"I know that darling, but does_ he?"_

"So basically what you're saying is I need to tell him that he is more important to me than my career and my independence?" I ask, hotly.

"No," she says, patiently, "Well... _yes_, in a way. Look, it doesn't have to be about all those wider issues. Of_ course_ your loved ones are more important to you than anything else. That's the way things_ should_ be. I'd expect any man to say the same. Don't you think you're more important to_ him_ than his career?"

"What_ career?"_ I sneer, then feel instantly horribly guilty. "Sorry. You're right. It shouldn't be about all the wider issues. But it_ is_. It was last time too."

She sighs. "Maybe you just need to stop analysing every last aspect of your life and just get on with things. Have a fantastic, fulfilling career, if that's what you want. Get married, if that's what you want. You don't have to choose between them. My mother's generation had to, but that was a long time ago. You're a wonderful, brilliant woman, Hermione. You can do everything."

I stare at the glass in my hand for a few minutes, mulling over her words. "I think... I think we were both afraid that if I took the next step in my career and became successful, I'd leave him behind. That's not what I want. I know he supports me, but..." I sigh. "It's complicated."

"I'd expect nothing less from you two," my mother grins.

"You know what he's like about money. He won't even let me buy him a can of Coke without insisting on paying me back. I already earn three times as much as he does. I don't want him to end up resenting me."

"Darling, I think you're creating problems where there aren't any. You lived through a_ war_ together. I think sometimes you need to remind yourself of that."

"He saved my life," I tell her, dully, "Twice."

"And you saved_ his_ in return, if I recall. Why are you sitting here telling_ me_ all this? You should be discussing it with_ Ron_. I'm sure between you, you can sort things out. For Heaven's sake, talking is what you_ do!_ If the two ofyou can't manage it, there's no hope foranyone..."

"_Arguing_ is what we do," I say, hopelessly.

"_Fine,"_ she says, getting impatient with me now, "_Argue_ it out. Anything's got to be better than sitting here moping."

"There's no point."

She sucks her breath in through her teeth sharply. "Well, obviously you know best."

"I'm sorry, Mum, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but -"

"You'd rather sit and stew?"

"No!"

"You don't want him back?"

"Of course I do!"

"Well -"

I jump to my feet. "You don't understand! You don't -"

I rush from the room in floods of tears.

---

When I return some minutes later, having washed my tear-streaked face and taken several deep breaths to calm myself down, she doesn't say anything, just fills up my glass once more and pushes it across the table towards me.

"Sorry," I mumble, thoroughly ashamed of my outburst. "I had a bit of a stroppy teenage moment there, didn't I?"

She looks amused. "Don't worry about it, darling. You're entitled to have a teenage strop now and then, you know. God knows you never had any when you _were_ a teenager. Not like me with _my_ mum. I probably told her she didn't understand me about once every other day."

She raises her glass to the ceiling and smiles. "She'll be looking down and laughing herself silly right now. '_You think you know everything, don't you? Well, you just wait until you have a daughter of your own, then you'll be sorry!'_"

"I think you've done a very good job, actually," I say defensively, "I think she'd be proud of you."

"Well, she'd have been thrilled I married a dentist, that's for sure. She once told me I wouldn't amount to anything."

"What?" I am horrified. This is a side of my grandmother I was unaware of.

"Oh, well, I was fourteen or fifteen at the time, still living at home. I was a bit of a nightmare for a couple of years, I don't mind telling you. We had a lot of screaming rows that ended with me slamming the door and telling her I hated her. Don't look so shocked, darling, someone had to be the rebellious teenager in this family, and it obviously wasn't going to be_ you_."

"Well, I didn't have anything to rebel against, did I? You'd done it all already."

"You had some genuinely grown-up problems to deal with, darling, you didn't have time for teenage strops. You seemed so adult. A million miles away from the silly little things my mother and I argued about. Me going out with too much mascara on, that kind of thing. I was -_ am_ - incredibly proud of the way you handled it all. There were times we were terrified for you, but we knew if we pushed you you'd just go the other way. We just had to trust you." She surveys me across the kitchen table. "We always rather suspected you weren't telling us everything, in fact."

"I wasn't."

"I didn't think so."

"I'm sorry. I didn't want you to worry. I had enough to worry about myself without upsetting you on top of it. Ron and Harry -"

"Mostly Ron," she grins.

"Mostly_ Harry_, actually. Harry was always the one I worried about. My problems with Ron were a whole different issue altogether. I think you'll find I had plenty of "teenage strops", I just didn't have them in front of_ you_."

"So Ron got the full blast of your hormonal wrath, did he?"

"I'm afraid so. Mind you, he was the_ cause_ of most of it..."

She shrugs. "Plus ca change."

I force a brittle smile. "Indeed."

"But my point is, you never wanted to dress up like a tart and go to nightclubs or anything like that." She gives an ironic laugh. "You just wanted to chase murderers around the country and get yourself half-killed."

"But it was worth it. If I hadn't done that - if_ we_ hadn't done that - I might not be sitting here now talking about it."

"I know, I know. But don't you sometimes feel that you missed out on all the normal teenage girl things?"

"Not really. I've never been one for nightclubs and parties, you know that. Anyway, I had my ordinary teenage girl experience with Viktor Krum if you remember."

"Hardly_ ordinary_, darling!"

"Well, no," I admit, "Not that ordinary."

"We always knew you were going to be special," she says fondly, wiping away a tear, "That's why we gave you such an unusual name."

"Well, Harry's_ much_ more special than me and he has a_ very_ ordinary name," I say, testily.

She looks slightly hurt. "I always thought you_ liked_ your name."

"I_ do_," I reply hastily, "Honestly, Mum, I really do! It's just..."

I lose my train of thought - something about feeling the pressure to succeed and that maybe if I'd been called Tracey it might have been easier - and pick up my empty glass and put it down again, just for something to do. Fortunately, my mum interprets this gesture as a none too subtle hint.

"You're right," she says, draining the last of her own glass, "Shall I open another bottle?"

I put my hand over my glass. "Could I have a coffee instead? I'm not used to drinking in the afternoon."

She raises her eyebrows. "And I am? Yes, you're probably right. I'm starting to feel somewhat light-headed myself. Coffee it is, then."

"Have you got any biscuits?" I ask automatically.

She stares at me, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.

"Sorry," I blush, "Of course you haven't."

"When have you_ ever_ known us to have biscuits in the house?"

"No, I know... it's just... I've been living with Ron for a month. If I didn't have any biscuits in the house, he'd leave me."

There is a small silence as we both realise what I have just said.

"I'm alright!" I say quickly, blinking back the tears that threaten to overwhelm me. "Honestly, I'm fine!"

She watches me thoughtfully. "Sometimes," she says, "I wondered if the reason you were so attracted to Ron was because we never allowed you to have cakes and sweets when you were growing up."

I can't help laughing. _"What?"_

"Well, you know... you've got to admit the boy has a sweet tooth. He's a two sugars in his tea and a choccy biscuit on the side kind of person. I wondered if maybe we hadn't accidentally installed in you a craving for sweet things."

"So in this equation, Ron is a Mars Bar?"

"Exactly!"

We both laugh, then her face grows serious again. "Why don't you go and see him?"

I stop laughing too. "Mum," I protest, "You promised you wouldn't keep having a go at me about this..."

"I'm not having a go, darling. It's just... I want you to be happy, that's all.

"I know, Mum."

"And you haven't been happy for a very long time, have you?"

A jolt goes through me and I have to swallow back the tears once more. "I'm fine," I whisper.

"Hermione," she says briskly, "You're not fine. A mother knows these things. You are considerably less than fine."

"I don't want to talk about it."

She scrutinises me for a few seconds then sighs and leans back in her chair. "Alright. What _do_ you want to talk about?"

"Tell me more about what you were like as a teenager."

She groans. "Must I?"

"Please."

"Well, alright, but there's really nothing to tell. I was a very ordinary suburban teenager who liked pop music and fashion and boys, that's all."

I raise my eyebrows quizzically. "Boys plural?"

She grins. "Well, there was this one boy I really liked. Dennis. He was my friend Cathy's older brother. My god, he was gorgeous, and he knew it too. Dark hair, dark eyes, kind of moody-looking. Looked a bit like the bass player in The Animals. All the girls fancied Dennis. And I decided, when I was fifteen, that I was going to save myself for Dennis Clark. Even though at that point, he probably hadn't spoken two words to me."

"And did you?"

"What?"

"Save yourself for Dennis Clark?"

She looks down at her hands and reddens slightly. My unembarrassable mother is actually blushing. "Yes."

"So he was your first boyfriend?"

She shakes her head. "No. I had a few boyfriends before him but I didn't go all the way with them. Not because I was saving myself for Dennis, I hasten to add. I'd forgotten all about that little vow pretty quickly. No, I saw him a few years later at a party and I'm afraid I basically threw myself at him, and he... well, I suppose he took advantage of me really. He didn't even remember me, didn't realise I was the same skinny little girl who used to come round for tea and eat beans on toast in front of Top of The Pops. Anyway, he took me upstairs and I lost my virginity on a pile of coats in someone's mother's bedroom. The whole thing can't have lasted more than a minute. It was very…" She searches for the right word. "Disappointing."

"Oh, dear."

"I hope yours was at least better than that?"

I feel myself blushing. "It was. _Much_ better."

"Well, it can't have been worse than mine. I didn't feel the earth move or fireworks exploding over my head, I just felt slightly as though I'd been interfered with. And afterwards I realised he hadn't even asked my name. I had given the flower of my maidenhood to some boy who didn't care enough about me to even ask my name. The scales kind of fell from my eyes about boys after that. Not that I didn't go on making the same mistake for several years, of course."

"What mistake?"

"Not realising that the popular, good-looking ones will always break your heart. That boy who neither of us can remember the name of, the one who was too much of a coward to break up with me in person and got Andrew to do it for him, he was a Dennis. _So_ good-looking, but an absolute _arse_."

We both laugh. "I bet you never had these kinds of conversations with _your_ mum," I joke.

She shakes her head. "God, no. I wish we had. I wish she'd lived longer or I'd gone back home sooner. Maybe if we could have learned to relate to each other as people, and not just as disapproving mother and wayward daughter..." She sighs. "The thing is, it's funny, but underneath it all I was actually just a nice middle-class girl who waited until she was seventeen to sleep with a boy despite many, _many_ opportunities..."

"That's nothing," I say, before I can stop myself, "I was twenty!"

She gapes at me, and my hand flies to my mouth.

_"Twenty!"_ she exclaims, shaking her head in disbelief, "Well, that settles it. Now I know Ron loves you. Any man who waits three years for you must have it really bad."

"It was two and a _half_ years, actually," I retort, testily.

"Oh, well, that makes all the difference!"

We catch each other's eye and start laughing.

"Never mind Ron," she gasps, "How on earth did_ you_ manage to wait that long?"

"I've absolutely no idea," I confess.

We both laugh harder than ever.

"I take it that side of things isn't a problem, then?" she asks, when we have both recovered somewhat.

I shake my head, feeling my cheeks growing hot. "Funnily enough, considering we're both_ talkers_, the_ non_-talking side of things has always been fine. Better than fine, in fact."

Mum raises her eyebrows quizzically, a small smile playing about her lips.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, blushing redder than Ron ever could. "That's too much information, isn't it? I think the wine must have gone to my head."

"Don't worry about it, darling. Anyway, I've been wittering on about my love life for long enough, feel free to confess anything you like, no matter how filthy. I won't mind. For heaven's sake, we did sleep in the room next to yours on that French holiday we all went on together, we weren't completely oblivious." She shoots me a mischievous look. "Or rather,_ didn't_ sleep, I should say..."

"Mum!" I protest, trying not to laugh and failing. We both laugh, and then my mind is drawn back to my last argument with Ron and the laughter dies in my throat.

"He's never going to forgive me, Mum."

"Darling, I thought your father was never going to forgive me, but he did."

"That's different. You were ill. And you were only gone for five weeks; I was gone for_ two years_."

"And despite all that, he came back."

"Yes, but only once he'd made me promise not to put him through anything like that ever again. And what did I do? I drove him away with my stupid jealousy!"

"Oh, darling! Come here."

She pulls me into her arms and lets me weep on her shoulder, stroking my hair and muttering soothing words.

"Come on now, no more crying. You're a strong, sexy, wonderful woman, and any man would be lucky to have you. If Ron doesn't realise that he doesn't deserve you."

I shake my head. "I just kept thinking… _keep_ thinking that maybe now he's been with someone else, I won't be enough for him anymore."

"Hermione. Men are much more easily pleased in bed than we are. If you're happy, he's happy."

"Yes, but it's not just that," I persist, unwilling to concede the point just yet, "It's this new girl too. I mean, it's practically on a plate with her. What man turns that down?"

"One who's still madly in love with his girlfriend? Honestly darling, you seem to have a surprisingly low opinion of men for one with so little experience of them. So he slept with someone else while you were separated, does it automatically follow that he's more likely to do it now that you're back together? If _you_ had met someone during that time, would the same be true of you? I'm sorry to say this, darling, but it doesn't make any sense. Do you really think Ron is the type of person who would cheat on you?"

"No, of course - well... not_ before_, but -"

"But now you think he might?"

"No -"

"Why would he move back in with you if he was seeing someone else? Wouldn't it make it easier for him if he just carried on living at Harry's, then he could date both of you and you need never know about each other. And why on earth would he_ introduce_ you to her?"

I shrug unhappily. My carefully constructed argument is falling apart around my ears.

"To get back at me?"

She shakes her head in disbelief. "Forgive me, darling, but it does seem a somewhat elaborate plan of revenge. From what I know of Ron, he seems much more of an..._ instinctive_ type of person. Do you really think he's capable of something like that?"

"No," I admit shamefacedly. "But..." I stare miserably down into my empty coffee cup. "I just keep wondering if he's comparing me to her. You know, in _bed_."

"Why, have things changed in that department, since he's been back?"

"A_ bit_... I mean, when we first got back together, it was..." - I squirm in my seat and feel my cheeks burning - "You know... c_onstant_... but since then... well, it's not every night anymore," I finish, embarrassed.

She arches an ironic eyebrow. "Yes, well, you probably wouldn't_ want_ it to be. You'd never get any washing done, for a start. No, look, darling - think of it as like the start of a new relationship. All you want to do at first is have sex, but inevitably that wears off, and you settle down to a more manageable level."

"Yes, but this was after only a week!"

"Well, I imagine you had a lot of catching-up to do. Especially you. Are you finding that you're the one initiating it and he's not interested?"

_"Mum!"_

"Well, there's no point fannying around the issue, darling!"

"Well… no..."

"So doesn't that suggest that he hasn't lost interest?" She chuckles. "Maybe you've just tired him out!"

"Can we talk about something else, please?"

"You brought it up!"

"I know, and I'm beginning to wish I hadn't."

"Oh, I don't know, I'm quite enjoying it. Come on, darling, when else am I going to get the opportunity to impart all my years of experience?"

We both laugh, and then her face grows serious and she watches me thoughtfully for a few seconds.

"It seems to me, darling, that it's not really this Anna that's the problem. I think you know deep down that she's not really a threat to you. You said yourself you were certain nothing's going on. I think... I think perhaps it's this_ other_ girl that's the real problem. The one he_ did_ sleep with."

I think about this for a few moments. "You mean... I'm just projecting my fear about losing him again onto Anna, because she's there and Luna isn't?"

"Maybe because you know you're partly responsible for the whole thing, so you can't get upset about it, but you_ can_ get upset about this other girl, whether there's any reason to or not. I think you're right, it_ is_ different for you. You've never been with anyone else, so you can't even begin to contemplate life outside of that relationship. And there's nothing wrong with that per se, but it does mean that you put a lot of pressure on yourselves. And I know you, darling, you're a perfectionist. You want everything to be perfect all the time, and if it isn't you get frustrated."

"You make me sound like a control freak."

"No, darling, that's not what I meant at all. There's nothing wrong with striving for perfection, but sometimes you just have to accept -"

"Less than perfect?"

"Exactly."

"Give me the courage to accept the things I cannot change."

We both laugh.

"Yes, that too," she smiles, raising her glass to the sky.

"So... I can't change that I left, or that he slept with someone else, or that our relationship will never be perfect again?"

"Well... ye-es. But you can't think of it like that. Imperfect. Nothing's perfect, darling." She raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Even you."

A jolt goes through me. She's right. It's_ not_ perfect; it never was and it never will be. I'm not perfect either, and neither is he, and actually, maybe that's okay.

"You once told me," I say, slowly, "That people aren't perfect and relationships aren't either, but it's worth working on the imperfections if there's enough good stuff too."

She smiles. "Did I? Well, I'm glad you listen to your mother occasionally. What else did I say?"

I can't help smiling too. "You said that sometimes, the imperfections_ are_ the good stuff..."

She laughs. "Had I been drinking?"

"No, but you're right. You're absolutely right. It's the little imperfections that make up the person we fall in love with, isn't it? I used to find it absolutely infuriating how smug Ron would get when he beat me at chess. Until I stopped finding it infuriating and started finding it - well, sort of_ attractive_..."

"Love truly_ is_ blind..." she says sardonically.

"You told me the moment you first realised you'd fallen in love with Dad was when he decided to grow a beard, and you didn't immediately go and pack your suitcase."

She roars with laughter. "That's absolutely true!_ Hate_ beards! Hate them! Thank God he shaved it off after a few months! I may have promised to love, honour and obey, but I made no promises about beards..."

"Ron bites his nails. He's twenty-six years old and he stills bites his nails."

"Your dad can never see a project through to the end. He gets an idea in his head, does loads of research, buys all the equipment and the magazines, throws himself into it headlong for a couple of months, then loses interest. Remember the vegetable garden? And the time he decided to build a kit car?"

"Ron still giggles like a schoolboy at stupid double entendres."

"Andrew always insists on using a new cup, rather than just wash out the old one. I can never find a clean cup!"

"Ron snores. Like a train."

"Your father always puts things down and then forgets where he put it. I'm constantly finding the ketchup in the bathroom or a stray fork on the bedside table."

"Ron can eat a three course meal and then half an hour later I'll find him in the kitchen making a sandwich."

"Andrew listens to all these dreadful modern groups. What are they called, Kaiser Chefs? I've told him a thousand times, you're fifty-seven, not seventeen! Of course, it's actually worse since I complained, because he's bought himself some of those fancy expensive headphones, so now when I call him, he can't hear me! I have to run around the house trying to find him!"

"Ron is_ obsessed_ with Quidditch. It was bad enough when he was just a fan, but now he plays it as well, all I hear about is how their team's goalkeeper let in a really easy shot and if_ he_ was in goal, he would_ definitely_ have saved it._ And_ he gets really grumpy if they lose."

"Andrew doesn't dance. Never has, never will. Says he just likes watching me."

"Ron never carries enough Mug -_ money_ with him, because he has to make a special trip to the wizard bank to exchange it, and obviously they don't have cashpoints and credit cards like we do. So I always have to think ahead and take twice as much as I need whenever we go out somewhere, just because he's so disorganised."

"Andrew falls asleep in front of the TV, just like_ my_ dad used to." She buries her face in her hands and pretends to sob into them.

"Ron refuses to get to grips with Muggle technology. I bought him a mobile phone once, so we could ring each other if we were going to be late, and he never bothered to learn how to use it."

"Andrew will never go anywhere without reading half a dozen guidebooks about it first. I remember when we went to Vienna for our silver wedding anniversary, he started telling me all about the history of the Cathedral, and he'd never even been there before!"

"Ron always insists on giving me the exact money for his half of the bill. 'I had a pudding and you didn't so I owe you three pounds fifty.' As if I'm_ counting!"_

"Andrew has a somewhat misplaced sense of public duty. If we're out in the country and he sees a Coke can or a plastic bag lying about, he'll pick it up and carry it about with him until he can find a bin to put it in. And if he catches someone in the act of actually dropping litter, he'll run over and tap them on the back and tell them he thinks they've dropped something. I'm always terrified one of them will turn around and stab him."

"Ron is sometimes annoyingly logical. I bought him a couple of plane tickets for his birthday once, because he'd never been on one before, and he set out in great detail how if we were going to travel the Muggle way we'd have to get a taxi from his house to the nearest train station, get a train to Exeter, a bus to the airport, wait an hour for the flight, be on the plane itself for about forty minutes, another half an hour getting out of the airport, then a train to Cambridge and a taxi to your house. It worked out as something like a seven hour journey and over a hundred pounds each. He said why would we do all that when we can Apparate there in 3 seconds flat for nothing? And you know, I didn't really have an answer! Grrr!_ Infuriating!"_

"Your dad has told that bloomin' anecdote about that party he went to in 1968 where he_ nearly_ met Jimi Hendrix exactly four hundred and eighty seven times. And it wasn't the greatest story in the world the_ first_ time I heard it!"

We are both nearly crying with laughter now.

"Aw," she says fondly, wiping away a tear, "But we wouldn't change them for anything, would we?"

"No," I reply with a smile, realising even as I say it that it's true, "We wouldn't."

"Talking of which," she grins, as the sound of a key turning in the front door makes us both glance up, "That'll be your dad now. Remember; if he asks, he's number six!"

---

* * *

---

That night we all go out for a family meal at a local restaurant, and although it's nice to spend time with my parents, it just reminds me that the last time we were all together, Ron was with us. When we return it is late and Mum tells me she has made up the spare room for me; "I'm sure you'll sleep better somewhere where there aren't so many painful memories."

---

I thank her and say goodnight, sitting down heavily on the end of the bed and feeling relief wash over me that I can finally let my guard down and don't have to carry on pretending I'm okay for my parents' sake. I almost want to laugh. How could she have known that actually this room holds many more memories of Ron than my own flat would have done? Or at least, my flat only contains_ new_ memories of him, from the last few weeks. This room holds seven_ years_ of memories. I lost my virginity in this room. I was first naked in front of a man in this room. I first_ saw_ a man naked in this room. Plus of course, my wonderful, liberal parents actually let us sleep in the same bed, which was a wondrous joy, even if Ron did say that knowing my dad was along the corridor tended to put him off his stroke somewhat.

---

The first time we stayed over at the Burrow after we'd moved in together, we naively imagined that the old separate bedrooms rule no longer applied. That hope was dashed when I was firmly informed that 'I've put your things in Ginny's room as usual, dear.' Of course, that didn't stop me sneaking up to Ron's room the minute I was certain everyone was asleep. It was a rather awkward, giggly experience; attempting to do it in a narrow single bed in a room that had barely changed since I first visited it, aged twelve, made things particularly surreal. The fact that Ron's bed still had on it's Chudley Cannons duvet cover did not, frankly, help the situation. The plan was that I would slip back to my own room before the rest of the house awoke, but I hadn't planned on his mother being such an early riser, or her unfortunate habit of coming into her children's rooms while they were still asleep to collect their washing or bring them a cup of tea. The stifled shriek she gave woke me instantly, and for a few long seconds we just stared at each other in mutual horror. I was rather glad that I had put my night things back on afterwards, and that she couldn't tell from that angle exactly where her youngest son's hand was.

---

We didn't stay there again until Christmas, a few months later. I remember that Ron insisted on getting a Christmas tree nearly as tall as he was, which leaned precariously the entire time we had it up, and shed so many needles that we kept finding them embedded in the soles of our feet almost until the_ following_ Christmas. We put up tinsel and mistletoe and sprayed fake snow in the corners of the windowpanes, and bought satsumas by the sackful and far too many boxes of mince pies. It was our first Christmas together, our first Christmas without war, and we wanted it to be perfect.

---

Ron bought a stupid little Santa hat from the market for a pound and wore it to bed once as a surprise. I laughed so much I almost cracked a rib, especially when he subsequently wore it to my work Christmas party as well. We left early that night. I've never really understood what the big deal is about a man in uniform, but there's definitely something about a man in a Santa hat, especially if that's the_ only_ thing he's wearing. (Not to the Christmas party, I hasten to add!) And especially when some of your bitchier work colleagues make it quite clear they think he is an idiot for doing so. ("Is that _really_ your boyfriend in the Santa hat? Oh, my _God_. No offence, but he doesn't really seem like your type…" _Well._ I couldn't have that, could I? I marched straight up to him and kissed him in the middle of the dancefloor, in front of everybody. It would have been brilliant if he could then have re-enacted the final scene from_ An Officer And A Gentleman_ and scooped me into his arms and carried me from the room - me taking the Santa hat from his head and pulling it onto my own - but of course I would have had to explain it to him first and that would have rather taken away the spontaneity of the thing, so it remained my own personal little fantasy. Unfortunately.

---

That first Christmas morning together, waking up in our little flat and opening our presents to each other in bed, was absolute bliss. Of course, it only lasted a couple of hours as we had to go to Ron's parents for Christmas dinner._ Had_ to, mind. Even the married sons went to Molly's for Christmas lunch, although she sometimes relented the first year after the wedding. Of course, we weren't married, we were only living together, so the fact that it was still our first Christmas together didn't count, apparently. I did suggest to Ron that perhaps we might stay at home and just go to his parents' for Boxing Day, but with not much hope of a positive reply, and I was right, he just said, "And miss Mum's Christmas dinner? Not bloody likely! And anyway, it's Tradition." I refrained from pointing out that just because something had been happening a long time didn't necessarily mean it was good thing. Burning witches was the example that came to mind. Sometimes change can be for the better.

---

And how I could I compete? Molly started making the mix for the Christmas pudding in September. She'd been baking for_ weeks_ already._ My_ plan, such as it was, involved a whizz around the aisles of Sainsburys with a trolley on Christmas Eve, and it certainly didn't involve me wasting valuable time actually making my own custard. So inevitably, we ended up going to his Mum's. We went the following year, too. The third year, I rebelled and insisted we go to_ my_ parents for a change. And although it was perfectly nice, it wasn't the same. My mum is like me, she doesn't really cook. Her and dad always make the dinner together, there's none of that separation of duties there is in the Weasley house. Of course it helps that they just buy a lot of things ready-prepared from the supermarket. Mum's always abided by Shirley Conran's maxim that life's too short to stuff a mushroom. She works full-time and has a busy social life, as does my dad; neither of them are going to get up at five a.m. to make mincemeat like Molly does every year. I was thoroughly aware, although he was perfectly polite about it and didn't complain, that the Christmas dinner wasn't up to his mother's high standards.

---

I was also very much aware of how quiet and restrained the experience must seem to him after all the chaos and noise of a Weasley Christmas. We'd always played games after dinner - Charades, Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble - and it didn't take us long to realise that having a wizard on your team is a distinct disadvantage. Poor Ron, it must have felt like he was sitting an exam, only in a subject he'd never studied. Plus - well, it didn't exactly bring out the best in me, being paired with him, as I became infuriated when he didn't know the answers to what I considered to be extremely basic questions and frustrated because we were losing so badly. I was angry with myself, too, for not realising what would happen beforehand, but I didn't know how to get out of it without it being obvious I was doing it for his sake. The following year we went back to his Mum and Dad's. I didn't argue.

---

I honestly thought that even if we got married and had children of our own we'd still be expected at the Burrow for Christmas dinner. The importance of family above all else. I loved them all, but I still felt like an outsider. They were_ his_ family, not mine. And besides, I'm an only child, I need my space. I like quiet. It wasn't that I didn't want to be there, but I was always glad to go home, back to our little flat where it was just the two of us. We'd waited so long to be together and I didn't want to share him with anybody. Being alone without Harry standing between us still felt like some sort of delicious privilege that might be taken away from us at any moment.

---

I suspected she thought that maybe I felt I was better than them, which wasn't true at all. Heaven forbid I should have ideas and ambitions! Heaven forbid I should want more from life than churning out yet more little Weasley babies! Heaven forbid I should actually want to earn my own living rather than live off my partner, who in any case, earned far less than I did, so if anyone was going to give up their job, it should be_ him_. Arthur had a reasonably well paying job at the Ministry, if they'd just had fewer children or she had got a part time job, maybe they wouldn't have had to scrimp and save for quite so long. Of course, I'd never have dared even suggest such a thing. If they'd had fewer children Ron and Ginny wouldn't have been born, and well - the very_ idea_ of Molly getting a_ job!_ She'd never worked a day in her life, how could she possibly understand how important my career was to me? She had sacrificed her life to her husband and children, a concept I found as alien as if she had decided to become a nun. Women didn't really still_ do_ that, did they? We were polite, even friendly to each other, but we never really_ understood_ each other.

---

Arthur, I always got on better with. Maybe he appreciated a little more why Ron might prefer to go out with an ambitious and independent Muggle-born girl than someone more like his own mother. Besides, he'd worked at the Ministry for thirty years alongside plenty of dynamic, go-getting young women, and he understood that they weren't a completely alien species, that this was the way the world was now. Ginny had it a lot easier. She had ambitions beyond motherhood, but at least she would - in her mother's eyes anyway - probably give up her job and settle down eventually, like a nice Weasley girl should. And Ginny was younger, of course. I was twenty four by the time I left; at that age Molly had been married six years and had three children already. I'm sure she suspected I might not actually want children at all - the very idea! - and that I was just stringing her youngest son along with the strange sexual power I held over him! Me leaving him, apparently for a fancy new job up North, must have confirmed everything she ever suspected about me. Even if we stay together, even if we end up getting married and having kids, I don't think she'll ever forgive me. I betrayed her family and that's the worst thing I could have done.

---

Thinking about it now I can see that it was all about me, not him. Our lives had been unsettled for years by the war and now suddenly we were just supposed to be normal again - get up, go to work, do all those things normal people did. Because of the war we'd not been able to make any plans at all and now suddenly my whole life seemed to be planned out for me. Job, flat, marriage, kids, move to the country, get a dog, middle age, grandchildren, death. When I was a child my dad loved to read to me from a book of nonsense poems and limericks and there was one I remember very clearly, which went something like this:

There once was a man who said, "Damn!"  
I suddenly see what I am.  
I'm a creature that moves  
In predestined grooves.  
I'm not even a bus, I'm a tram!"

That was exactly how I felt. That my whole life was set out for me on tram tracks, stretching off into infinity, and there were all these expectations upon me to conform. My mother, despite being the kind of modern, liberal woman who bought her daughter a book about the Suffragette movement for her eleventh birthday, had started to wonder aloud when her only child might be getting married and joke that if she had to wait any longer she'd be too old to pick up her own grandchildren. I'd spent enough of my life with Ron by then to appreciate that jokes often conceal real feelings and tensions. She was twenty nine when she got married and thirty when she had me. I was coming up for twenty-five, a third of the way through my life already. It was nearly five years since we'd moved in together. Somehow half a decade had gone by and I hadn't achieved any of the things I wanted to achieve, still didn't really know what those things _were_. I suppose I just felt as though time was slipping away from me. People had started to ask when we were going to set the date. I think I panicked. I didn't feel ready for all that yet. I still don't feel ready. I don't feel like a grown-up yet.

---

When does that happen, I wonder? When do you suddenly start feeling like an adult? I walked past a group of young boys playing football on the pavement the other day and when they saw me approach one of them called out, "Watch out for the lady!" and it gave me a real jolt. I'm not a_ lady_._ Ladies_ are middle aged women with grey hair, or else they're tall impeccably-groomed women in their thirties who are vivacious and have dinner parties and wear kitten heels and are married to someone who earns a lot of money in the City. I'm not a lady. I'm a_ girl_. I don't feel any different than I did when I was eighteen.

---

No, that's not true. When I was eighteen I had so much hope, so many expectations. When the war was over… We used to say that all the time, Ron and I. When this is all over… We'll get a flat together. We can get jobs and earn money and go out to pubs and parties and everything will be wonderful. Everything was ahead of us. We couldn't see that there could be anything worse than the war. We were sure that if we could get through that we could get through anything. You don't realise, when you're that age, that it's the small things that derail you, not the big things. I remember screaming at him about a week before I left that if I had to pick one more sock up off the floor I would burn the lot of them and he could go barefoot. Of course, it wasn't really about socks. That was just a symptom of my wider feeling of discontent. It wasn't really about him at all. I know he would have supported me if I wanted to change my job, take some time off, go back to school even. He would have supported me in anything I wanted to do. I think he would even have moved up here if I'd asked him. But I didn't give him the chance.

---

I suppose I was just overwhelmed and I couldn't see the wood for the trees. All I saw was a flashing exit sign and I rushed headlong towards it without thinking about where that door led. I felt like I didn't have any choices, that my entire life was being decided for me by other people. Other people's expectations. Ron's mother, I knew full well, expected me to give up my job if and when we had children. We had angry words about it once, and never spoke of it again. She was adamant that once I'd had my first child some hitherto repressed mothering instinct would kick in, and I wouldn't want to go back to work. I knew that wasn't going to happen. My career wasn't just important to me, it was part of who I was. And who I was, was not just someone's girlfriend, or someone's mother. _Andhermione. _Was that what I had become? Just an addendum to someone else?

---

_My_ mother wanted me to have the big career, but she also wanted grandchildren and I was her only chance of that. It's a classic only child thing, that sense of pressure, of wanting to please your parents, to live up to their expectations. All their hopes are bound up in you. Ron didn't have that pressure, but he felt it in other ways; trying to live up to his brothers, trying to get his parents' attention when seven of them were all clamouring at once. You have to mark yourself out as different from your siblings when you come from a large family. Bill's popular, Charlie's good at Quidditch, Percy's ambitious, the twins are funny, Ginny's the only girl. Everyone carves out a role for themselves within the family. If you're an only child, as I am, you have to somehow fill all those roles at once. You can't allow yourself to fail at anything, because you feel like you're letting them down. I've always been a high achiever. My mum likes to tell the story of when I was nine, and I'd got a B on an essay, so I took it home, rewrote the whole thing again, and insisted on it being resubmitted and remarked so that I would get an A. I wanted to be brilliant.

---

It's funny, the things you want when you're young are all bound up in your family's expectations of you. Ron wanted to find his role. Harry just wanted to be normal. I wanted to be better than everyone else. I_ needed_ to be better than everyone else. And after I'd left school and once the war was over, what was there to fulfil that need? I couldn't be top of the class anymore. In the real world, no-one cares if you got a hundred and ten per cent on your Charms essay. It was fine for Harry, he got his wish, he got to just be normal. Ron thought he wanted fame and glory, got a taste of it, then realised that wasn't what he wanted after all, and that actually, normal sounded pretty good to him. We'd achieved what we wanted, we'd won, it was all over, and now we could just get on with our lives. We could just be, in Ron's words, "happy to be happy".

---

And I wish that could have been enough for me too, but it wasn't. I know in my heart that won't change. I'm never going to be just happy to be happy. I'm always going to want more for myself. He once said - one of the last things he ever said to me - "_You're_ enough for_ me_, why aren't_ I_ enough for_ you_?" At the time it made me angry - thank you for that spectacularly passive-aggressive comment, Ron - but now it makes my heart break. I wish he_ was_ enough for me. It would make my life a lot easier, for a start. It's like the old question, "Would you rather be happy and stupid or clever and miserable?" As though the two are mutually exclusive! If you want great things for yourself, if you want to be top of the class in everything, if you always want_ more_ from your life, you're never going to be happy. Or at least, fulfilled. He accused me of putting my job before him, and I denied it, but now I'm wondering if that's exactly what I did.

---

Maybe I did take him for granted a little. When we were together, that was the constant thing in my life. I knew I'd met the person I was going to spend the rest of my life with, so I didn't have to worry about that part of my life, I could concentrate my efforts on my career instead. That was the aspect of my life I was unhappy with, not him. I think that I was just unhappy with the direction my life was taking and I lashed out at the person nearest to me. And then, because he argued back, because all of our old issues got dragged up, it became about other things as well, and I lost sight of the original problem. Leaving him, changing jobs, coming up here… I think that I was in such a state of shock after the break-up, everything that had happened, that it took me a long, long time to realise I'd brought my problems with me. I was still unhappy in my job, only now I was unhappy in my emotional life too. Now I finally feel as though as I'm facing up to things. None of this was ever about Ron, it was all about me and the pressure I put on myself. The pressure I felt from others, rightly or wrongly. I need to allow myself to be happy._ Just_ to be happy, and then maybe I can finally start to work out what I really want to do with my life. The_ other_ part of my life, I should say. It's true what they say, you don't know what you've got until it's gone. I didn't know how much I needed him until he wasn't there anymore.

---

I've had two whole years to decide what I want to do with my life and I haven't been able to make any decisions at all. Well, I still don't know what I want to do, but I do know who I want by my side while I figure it out. I've tried being on my own, I've tried being independent, and what have I achieved? Precisely nothing. I haven't built a single stick of that treehouse. I haven't learnt how to catch my own fish. All I did was work to fill the void, and what have I got to show for it? Five thousand pounds sitting in a bank account and no-one to share it with.

---

I think I finally realise it now, that I can't do this on my own. I think I lost myself there for a while, took a wrong turning, lost sight of what was important. Because I_ do_ need him, but I also have to realise that needing someone doesn't make me weak. It doesn't make me less of a person. I_ do_ need to be looked after. Not because I need protecting, but in order to have the strength and stability to be able to look after myself. Being without him was like trying to stand on one leg for two years.

---

All those stupid little things we argued about… I wish I had a Time-Turner, so I could go back and give myself a good hard slap. Who cares if he never remembers to hang up his wet towels properly? Are you _really_ arguing about a _lamp? _Do you even know what you _are_ arguing about, or why? None of that stuff's important. Finding space for someone else in your life, that's what important. Making concessions. Making allowances. Working on – no,_ celebrating_ – the imperfections. His stupid jokes. His untidiness. His Quidditch obsession. All things I knew about before we even got together, so I can hardly complain I was duped into falling in love with him, can I? No, I fell in love with him despite those things._ Because_ of those things. Just like he says he loves me because I complain about his swearing and take two hours to dry my hair._ Because_ of those things. And_ I'm_ supposed to be the smart one.

---

It's funny, really, how you don't remember the boring bits; you only remember the things that happen in colour - the fights, the birthday kisses, the sun-drenched memories of days spent lying in the garden… Of_ course_ what we had wasn't perfect. Of_ course_ it wasn't all some sort of Best Of album, there were lots of times we just went to work and came home and talked about boring stuff, and cooked dinner, and did the washing up and had stupid little arguments about nothing in particular, like whose turn it was to buy toilet rolls, and it wasn't romantic at all. Not Romantic with a capital R, anyway. Not what you learn to expect from relationships when you're a young girl, when books and films and songs and your own rosy-tinted hopes and expectations lead you to believe it's all holding hands while barefoot on white sandy beaches, and laughing in the rain, and slow-dancing perfectly and all those other clichés.

---

No one ever tells you you'll be picking up his socks for the rest of your life, and that adorable self-deprecating way of his will start to drive you round the bend, and if you hear that anecdote one more time you'll scream. Or that the beach will be pebbly, and he will get irritable because it's too hot and want to go inside, or that the rain will make your hair frizz up and you will not look like a fairy-tale princess, you will just look like you have fallen through a hedge; or that when you do slow dance together he will tread on your foot or try to put his hand on your bottom. Or that sometimes things just end, and they end for no reason, and there's nothing you can do about it.

---

There are no happy endings in real life, as in fiction. "Reader, I married him" is never the end of the story. Although I would, I would marry him tomorrow if he asked me. But that fear will always be there, that doubt. Is he just asking so it's harder for me to leave again? Am I just saying yes to alleviate my guilt? Are we just doing it to prove a point to our friends and families? (_"Look, we're getting married! Everything's okay now!")_ There should only be one reason a couple get married, and guilt and fear aren't it.

---

I don't know what else I can do to prove to him how much I love him, how much I want this. He used to say - only half-jokingly - that he was lucky to get to me early before I realised I could do better. Except that's not true at all, is it? I_ could_ have done 'better'. I could have had Viktor Krum, but I didn't want him. I wanted Ron. Not that he ever really believed me, I'm sure. His problem has always been a certain fatalistic tendency; "She'll get fed up with me eventually, she'll meet someone else, she'll leave." I spent years trying to convince him that was never going to happen, and then what did I do? I left. I confirmed every fear he'd ever had about me, every doubt he'd ever had about himself. How can I possibly expect him to forgive me after that? The first time he took me back because he still loved me and desperately wanted it to work. Why would he take me back a second time? Why would he put himself through that all over again? Give me another chance to hurt him? He said himself, love isn't enough anymore. Whatever my mum says about him wanting me to come after him, she didn't hear him say it, didn't see the hopeless look in his eyes. It's over. He isn't coming back. What on earth am I going to do without him?

---

Morning. I open my eyes and glance automatically at the alarm clock on the bedside table. A quarter to twelve. I have slept late. I wonder what he's doing now. Probably still in bed too, as it's a Sunday. And then realise, with a jolt of excitement tinged with fear, that I know_ exactly_ where he is right now, and exactly what he's doing. The last match of the season. My last chance.

---

* * *

_(Author's Note: I confess this is my favourite chapter so far, even though it doesn't have Ron in it (and I do love Ron!). It was certainly the most enjoyable to write. I especially enjoyed writing Hermione's mum; I felt as though I was channelling a real person through my pen! Also, as I mentioned in the preliminary A/N, I never knew my own mother, so I'd really appreciate it if you could let me know how I did with my portrayal of the mother/daughter relationship. _

_So... only one more chapter to go. I feel a bit like JK at the end of Book Six. The expectation! The anticipation! I'm almost as excited as you are. What do you think will happen? Let me know! By review, by PM, or on the forum, I'd love to hear your views. Also, this is the time to add me to your Author Alerts as I have a few ideas about what to write next, so there might well be a new Pinky Brown fic on here sooner than you think. Do it now, before you forget! _

_Oh, and I apologise if the phrase "Ron is a Mars Bar" has launched a hundred sordid little sexual fantasies. I'm afraid I can't pretend I didn't have that in mind when I wrote it! - PB x)_

* * *


	13. Chapter 13: Last Match of the Season Pt1

_Author's Note: _

_Firstly, apologies to all of you who have been waiting on tenterhooks for an update; I struggled with this chapter more than any before it. I knew where I wanted to go, and how I wanted to get there, but getting it on the actual page was like wading through treacle. Obviously, if I was one of those writers whose chapters were only 1,000 words rather than 20,000 it wouldn't take me quite so long, but there you go, once you commit to a Pinky Brown story, you're in it for the long haul..._

_And secondly, don't hate me, but the last chapter has turned into something of an epic, so I've ended up having to split it into two parts. Not because I like to keep you hanging on or because I'm particularly evil, just because it works better that way. You'll see why when you read it. So let's just say this is the__** beginning**__ of the end..._

_This one's for Doug, who's had to put up with my horrendous Chapter 13 writer's block and subsequent lack of contact for weeks. Sorry, Doug (hangs head)._

_PB x_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: The Last Match Of The Season (Part One)**

---

One quick shower and a hasty apology to my parents later, and I'm practically running what feels like the entire length of Hackney Marshes. Why does the Quidditch pitch have to be at the furthest end of the field? I feel sick with a mixture of excitement and fear at the thought of seeing him again. Six days and it feels like a lifetime. I shouldn't have left it this long. I shouldn't have let him leave in the first place. I shouldn't have - Oh, there are a thousand things I shouldn't have done. At least today I get a second chance to put them right. Third chance, I should say. How many chances is he going to give me? How many chances do I _deserve? _

---

I haven't even _thought_ about what I'm going to say to him. 'I love you, I miss you, I need you. I'm sorry. Come home. Please, just come home.' But what if he doesn't want to listen? If he refuses to even _see _me? What then? No, I can't think that. He won't refuse to see me. He_ won't_. Even if my sudden arrival at the side of the pitch throws his concentration so much they end up losing the match 200-nil. Oh, God, I really shouldn't try to laugh and breathe at the same time. A coughing fit forces me to pull up short, bent double and with my hand pressed to my chest. My head is pounding, my eyes are streaming, my lungs hurt, and I'm wheezing like an asthmatic old man. Well, that's what happens when you try to run the length of eighteen football pitches, especially when the only exercise you usually get is turning the pages of a heavy book. And Ron. And _Ron_. Filled with renewed purpose, I straighten up, take a deep, calming breath and start running again.

---

Finally, I see the familiar glint of the goal hoops up ahead, by the trees. But, wait - something's not right. Action seems to have stopped, for some reason. Only a handful of players are still in the air, the rest are either making their way down to the ground, or have already landed. A few are even shirtless and hugging each other, as though in celebration. I glance at my watch. 12.42 p.m. The match has barely lasted for three quarters of an hour. Surely it can't be over already? As I approach I can see Ron, dismounting from his broomstick at the side of the pitch. I'd recognise him from a mile away, but especially today. The midday sun is blazing down and his hair looks brighter than ever.

----

I speed up my pace, feeling my heartbeat speed up too. He is talking to one of the other team members and hasn't seen me approach, but as I get within earshot I can see Louis the Nigerian goalkeeper spot me and mutter a few words to Ron, who turns around slowly and stops dead when he sees me. Louis seems to melt away beside him until it is just the two of us standing there. He doesn't look surprised to see me; on the contrary he looks as though he was expecting it. For a few long seconds neither of us says a word, as though hoping the other one might speak first. I force a nervous smile onto my face.

"We need to talk."

He scrutinises me for a few more seconds, then he nods.

"Alright," he says, simply.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and wipes it on his trousers. He looks very hot and sweaty, and rather tired, too. His hair is damp, his face is pink with exertion, and his t-shirt is sopping wet and stuck to his body. He pulls it roughly over his head, revealing a bright orange Cannons t-shirt beneath it and giving me a flash of an expanse of clammy white skin. He notices me looking and flushes slightly.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I'm a bit sweaty."

There is a slightly awkward moment, the sort we used to have all the time in sixth year, when one of us would catch the other staring at them and we'd both look away hurriedly, embarrassed. I am not sure if I should even be looking, now we are no longer - together? To cover the awkwardness, I pretend to have only been interested in what he is wearing, and point at his chest.

"Is that for luck?"

"What?"

"The Cannons shirt."

He nods. "Yeah, well, I wore it under my kit when we won the end of year cup at school, so..."

"And it still fits?" I joke.

"No," he says, not smiling, "It's a different shirt."

"Oh."

My feeble joke has fallen somewhat flat, and now I don't know what to say, how to play this situation. We stand there awkwardly for a few seconds, then:

_"Ron!"_

Anna pulls up beside us breathlessly, having sprinted halfway across the pitch to get here. She doesn't look at me or otherwise acknowledge my presence in any way.

"You alright?" she demands, fiercely.

Suddenly I realise how much she cares about him. She_ likes_ him, yes, but she also just likes him. They're friends. She doesn't want to see him get hurt again. She was the first person he went to when we argued last week, after all. Not Harry. Not Mike. Not one of his brothers._ Her_.

Ron gives a minute nod. "Yeah."

She scrutinises him for a few seconds as if trying to work out whether he's telling the truth or not, then seems to decide to take him at his word. "Alright, well, we're all going back to ours to get changed, then it's pa-ar-tee time! Dad's got a load of beers in specially. You coming?"

"Um…" He seems to take an age to answer, and then he says, in a carefully light tone, "Yeah, maybe later."

She punches him lightly in the arm. "Aw, c'mon, you've gotta come! It's the last match of the season!"

I feel a sense of guilt that this is something really important to him, and because I am here he can't go. It is on the tip of my tongue to say he can go if he wants to, that its fine, and I don't mind, but the truth is I do. So I keep quiet and leave it to him to decide, my heart in my mouth.

"Everyone else'll be there!" she persists.

"Yeah, I know. Maybe."

She finally spares me a glance, as though acknowledging my part in this. "Okay, well, you've got my mobile number, so just give me a call from a pay phone when you're ready and I can let you know where we are. Some of us thought we might go clubbing afterwards, you know, once the old gits have gone to bed. Be great if you could come. You still owe me a drink for Wednesday, remember?"

He nods. "Okay."

"Cool. And Ron -" She makes a start towards him as though she is going to give him a hug, then changes her mind. "You were brilliant today."

"Thanks," he says, flatly.

"Call me anyway, yeah?" she pleads, her eyes fixed on his as though she is trying to communicate something silently without my knowing. Which is probably, '_When the bitch dumps you again, I'll be right there waiting to pick up the pieces.'_ I watch this little tableau feeling very much like an interloper.

Presumably he has silently answered her question, for she nods, and runs off again. Ron watches her go, and then turns back to me, finally meeting my eyes: "I_ really_ need a drink."

I wait while he fetches his satchel from the side of the pitch, then we start walking slowly across the grass towards the main road, him automatically adjusting his long stride to mine.

"It's a good thing I got here when I did," I tell him, every word out of my mouth sounding strange and awkward to me now, "Or I'd have missed you. I didn't expect the match to be over so quickly."

"Nor did I," he says with a grimace. "Shortest match I've ever played. Thirty seven minutes."

"What happened?"

"Jimmy got a Bludger to the head three minutes in and fell off his broom. He's alright," he adds hastily, seeing my horrified expression, "Just a bit concussed. Anyway, it meant we had to play the rest of the match with only six players. And one of their Chasers is really good; you need two Beaters just to keep him away from the hoops at the best of the times. Today all there was between him and the goal was_ me_ - trying to hold off all three Chasers single-handedly - and Louis."

He says the last name with a slight tone of disgust and I remember his rant about the Nigerian Keeper's lack of skills from last week.

"I played my arse off, but it just wasn't enough. Makes that hundred-nil drubbing we got last month look like a picnic. Final place in the league: twelve out of seventeen."

I don't know whether to sympathise or express astonishment that there are five teams even worse than they are.

"I'm sorry you lost," I tell him, "I'm sure you played your best, though."

I am thoroughly aware that my words must sound feeble next to Anna's passionate, '_You were brilliant today'_ but it is the best I can do. I wish I had got here earlier, so he could have seen me standing at the side of the pitch, known I was there for_ him_.

"You were just unlucky, that's all," I tell him, soothingly. "If Jimmy hadn't fallen off his broom…"

He shrugs. "We'd still have been shit. We just wouldn't have been able to blame a stray Bludger hit by the other team."

"You don't seem that upset."

Another shrug. "I'm a Cannons supporter, I'm used to disappointment." He gives an ironic laugh, then brightens. "Anyway, it's not _all_ bad. Me and Louis have been talking… He doesn't particularly want to be Keeper; it was just the only position available when he joined. So we're gonna swap. Just for the first three matches in September, see how it goes, you know?"

I can hear the hope in his voice.

"Anyway, Barry reckons the team needs a shake-up, so he's gonna let us do it. Marek's going back to Poland next month, so we'll need a new Chaser as well. I said I'd put the word around at work. It's always the problem with London teams. Hardly anyone's actually from London, they're all from somewhere else in the country, like me and Jimmy, or Poland and Nigeria, like Marek and Louis. Eventually they bugger off back to their own countries, and you're left having to train up yet another new player and hoping they'll fit in. Still, it might work out okay, 'cos obviously the new Chaser'll need to get in some scoring practice, so we can train together."

_Please let it not be a girl, I think to myself._

"I mean, it's been nine years since I played in goal -"

A jolt goes through me. Has it really been that long? I remember that last match at the end of sixth year as though it were yesterday. We'd kissed for the first time just a few days before, and we were both still slightly dazed by the dramatic turn our relationship had taken. Everything was new and thrilling and wonderful. Fast-forward nine years and it seems we've come full circle. The irony is not lost on me.

"- so I really need to get some serious practice in over the summer. Maybe go training two or three times a week, you know?"

I almost laugh. So much for no more Quidditch for three months.

"That's good, though. That Barry's giving you a chance to prove yourself."

"Yeah," he says, uncertainly, "I hope I don't let him down. He's going out on a bit of a limb for me already, to be honest. But it would be nice to actually win something occasionally. I'm sick of losing things."

_I am not sure if he is still talking about Quidditch._

"Maybe if we get some new blood in we might actually stand a chance. Dave's forty next year; he can't possibly expect to keep playing forever. I know it's only Sunday League, but it's hard to make yourself get out of bed at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning when you know you're just going to lose again. A bit of a shake-up should do us good. I don't know what we'll do if Anna leaves too, mind, she's about the only decent player we've go-"

"Anna's leaving?" I interrupt, trying not to sound too excited at this news.

His pale blue eyes bore into me. "Maybe," he says stiffly. "She wants to go full-time at the shelter, but it's a shift system, so she'd have to work some Sundays, and then she'd have to give up the team. Which would be a_ disaster_, because good Seekers are hard to find."

"Maybe you could coax Harry out of retirement?" I joke.

He shakes his head. "The whole point of joining up in the first place was to get out of the house and meet new people. This is_ my_ team,_ my_ friends. Look, do you mind if we stop and sit down for a bit? I really need a drink."

I look up and realise that this conversation has taken us all the way through the back streets of Hackney and to a pub on the main road.

"Oh. Of course. I'm sorry, you must be exhausted."

He shakes his head. "Just thirsty."

We sit on opposite sides of a bench in a rowdy pub beer garden, and I note that Ron orders a lime and lemonade rather than the pint of beer he might usually have. I wonder if he's made a conscious decision not to drink because he knows how much is riding on today. Or because there are some things he wants to say to me, that he needs to be sober for. Or maybe, pipes up the voice of reason in my head - which sounds uncannily like my Mum - he's just_ thirsty_, like he said.

---

She's right, I do have a tendency to over-analyse things. Two whole weeks I spent worrying whether it was too soon to get him an anniversary present, whether it would be appropriate, what I should get him, whether I should even mention it... My God, I_ agonised_ over that decision! Ron obviously didn't think about it at all. He just saw something in a shop window, thought, "Hermione'd like that", and bought it for me.

---

"I think I'm gonna get some crisps," Ron announces, attempting to extricate his long legs from the footwell of the bench. "Do you want anything?"

"You know, you really shouldn't eat crisps if you're dehydrated. They're packed full of salt."

"Right," he says, dryly, giving me a look that suggests he's only just about managing to refrain from rolling his eyes at me. "I'll bear it in mind."

He slouches off in the direction of the bar and I inwardly curse myself. Why did I_ say_ that? I came here to make amends, not criticise.

He's back shortly with a second round of soft drinks and a packet of salt 'n' vinegar crisps for himself, which he proceeds to methodically work his way through in silence, not looking at me at all.

I watch him licking the crisp residue off his fingers across the table. The sun is behind him and his hair, which has grown back to something approaching its normal length now, is so blazingly bright I have to squint to look at him. He catches me staring and frowns.

"What?" he says, defensively. "I'm_ hungry_."

_"_Your hair's grown back."

The frown immediately dissolves into one of his trademark grins. "Yes, it has. You like it?"

"You know I do. You look like_ you_ again."

"Something for you to hold onto?" he teases.

"Something like that."

He chuckles softly and returns to his drink.

---

He seems rather quiet and thoughtful today and it gives me hope. At least he's not snapping my head off as I thought he might do. At least he's not in that sarcastic mode where everything you say just elicits a nasty little comment or unhelpful derision. He seems to want to talk about it too. If there was no hope, if he thought it was really over, why would he even be here? He could be in the pub with his friends, drowning his sorrows and having a good time. On the minus side, a quiet and thoughtful Ron makes it harder for me to know what he's thinking. At least if he was shouting at me I'd know the truth.

---

"So," I say, tentatively, "How's your week been?"

A shrug. "Alright, I suppose. _Considering_," he adds, pointedly.

He glances up and catches my eye, a brief expression of guilt flickering across his face. "What about you?"

_It's been the worst week of my life. _

"It's been… not so great, actually."

He nods in understanding. "Yeah, mine's been a sack of dragon dung as well."

We both laugh, then stop again just as suddenly, realising at the same time that there's really nothing to laugh at in this situation.

"How are Harry and Ginny?"

_They hate me, don't they?_

"They're fine, as far as I know."

"As far as you _know?_" I repeat.

"Yeah, well, I haven't seen them that much, have I?"

"You haven't?"

_Please don't have been staying at Anna's…_

"Well, I've had practice every night, so…"

"Oh. Yes, of course."

_That still doesn't answer my question._

He gives a short laugh. "Although I might as well have not bothered, for all the good it did us."

"Well, it wasn't _your_ fault Jimmy fell off his broom… A - Anna said you played really well."

"Yeah," he says distractedly, rubbing the back of his neck where the sun is burning him. "Look, would you mind if we went somewhere else? I'm gonna fry if we sit out here much longer. Maybe a park or something?"

"We could go down to the river," I suggest, "It's usually a few degrees cooler there because a sea breeze comes up from the estuary."

"Fine," he says, irritably, downing the contents of his glass and getting to his feet, "What are we waiting for?"

---

* * *

---

We end up in Victoria Embankment Gardens, the little park between Charing Cross station and the Thames. Ron flops down on his back on the grass and lets out a big sigh of satisfaction, and after a moment's hesitation I sit down awkwardly beside him, folding my legs neatly under me. I watch as he yanks off his shoes and socks and rolls his trousers up to the knees, stretching out his toes blissfully in the cool grass.

---

We talk for a while about this and that, but after a while conversation peters out completely and his eyelids flutter closed. I am not sure if he is actually asleep, or just dozing. Still, I take the opportunity to watch him, lying there flat on his back with one knee bent up, his mouth slightly open, and one large hand resting gently on his stomach. I am seized with the urge to lie down beside him, snuggle up to his sun-warmed body, and press my lips to his pale, freckled cheek.

---

God, it's like fifth year all over again. Yearnings I can't act on. Feelings that threaten to overwhelm me. Not being brave enough to say all the things I want to say to him. I know I should say something, I know that we _need_ to talk about this, it's just that now there's so much more to lose. And I already know what it feels like to lose it.

---

Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I get up and go to the kiosk to buy ice lollies. When I return, he has rolled over onto his stomach, and I lean down and press the icy cold wrapper against the back of his neck. He yelps and half-rises from the ground, his expression of panic transforming into one of relief when he sees me standing there, and then delight when he sees what I am holding.

His eyes widen. "Is that for me?"

"Who else would it be for?"

"Oh, God, you're wonderful!"

I turn my head to hide my blush of delight, even though I know he would say the same thing to anyone who brought him food. Even a Cornetto-bearing Viktor Krum would probably raise a smile.

He tears off the wrapper and his face dissolves into blissful joy as he bites into it. "God, that's good," he mumbles.

Not for the first time, I wonder at how easy Ron is to please. A shady patch of grass, an ice lolly, and he's utterly content. I wish I could say the same.

---

We lounge about on the grass for several hours after that, not talking or doing anything much. It's nice just to be together, especially after the awful week we've both had, but the whole time a kind of pall is hanging over us. I can never really relax because I know what's coming, what _has_ to come, if we are ever to resolve this. Ron must know that too, but he at least seems happy to just lie on the grass and enjoy these few hours of peace for what they are. Neither of us seem to want to raise the difficult subject of us, we just cling on to normal for as long as we can.

---

There is the odd moment, of course, where the silence seems tense with words yet unspoken, but those moments pass, and time moves on. If we were properly a couple, this would be one of those glorious, endless long summer afternoons where you do nothing but _be_, and be _together_, and all seems right with the world. But we're not, so we just lie here, a few feet away from each other, but somehow miles apart.

---

Eventually, we realise it's half past five and we should probably eat something, so we reluctantly leave our perfect little patch of shade and wander up into Covent Garden to look for somewhere to eat. My limbs feel pleasantly tired and stiff after lying down for so long, and we're both so ridiculously relaxed that if the circumstances were different, I might have suggested we just go home and sleep. It's still relatively early, so just at the time where cafes are closing for the day and restaurants are not yet open, or so empty as to be soulless. We look in a few windows, but nothing inspires us.

"What about here?"

"Mm," I say, noncommittally, "I'm not sure. It doesn't look very clean."

We move on up the road. "Pub?" he suggests, gesturing towards one where a large group of drinkers, smokers, and mobile-phone jabberers are spilling out onto the street.

I shake my head. "Too busy."

We walk another few hundred yards, and Ron stops outside a little café with a hand-written blackboard menu outside.

"What about here?" he asks, hopefully, "They've got seats, look."

"Ron," I say severely, "I am not eating somewhere they can't even spell_ chedar_."

The corners of his mouth twitch, then, without any warning, he takes my face in his hands and plants a big kiss in the middle of my forehead. I stare at him, astonished.

"What was_ that_ for?"

He merely smiles enigmatically. "Oh, nothing. It's just... good to you have back, that's all."

I don't know what to say. "Well… thank you. I_ think_."

He has already moved on and is looking in another restaurant window at the menu. "Do you fancy Italian? What about that little place we used to go to in Hampstead? Is it still there, do you think?"

He's full of surprises today. I wouldn't have thought he'd want to go anywhere that might remind us of our old life, when we were_ happy_, but apparently he does.

"I've no idea," I say, still a bit stunned from the unexpected kiss, "It might be nice, actually. Do you think they'll remember us?"

He chuckles. "I doubt it, after two years."

"It's not cheap, though. Have you… have you got enough Muggle money on you?"

_Best to bring this up now if it's going to be an issue later._

"No problem. I thought I'd be going out clubbing, didn't I?"

"Oh. Yes, of course."

I'd forgotten about that. Obviously _he_ hasn't, though. I wonder if he's still contemplating the idea of actually going. Although he did say he _thought_ he'd be going out clubbing, and that does seem to suggest it was something that_ was_ going to happen but now it isn't. Yes, because Ron's definitely the type of person to consider his tenses before he speaks...

"Although -" He glances at me and hesitates. "Well, if we're going out to eat somewhere nice, I should probably go home and get changed first. I can't really go out for dinner in my sweaty Quidditch things, can I?" He laughs, nervously. "I'll put people off their food!"

My stomach lurches. "You want to go home?"

He shrugs. "Just to get changed."

"Right."

I don't want him to go, mainly because I am uncertain as to whether this is just a convenient excuse, and he has no intention of coming back. Not to mention that I don't want him to bump into Ginny and get talked out of - or into - something.

I pretend to look for something in my bag so I don't have to look at him, but I can still feel him watching me.

"I don't have to," he says, quietly. "If you'd rather -"

"It's fine," I say, stiffly, still unable to look him in the eye.

He shivers slightly in the cooler evening breeze and I notice his arm has come up in goose bumps.

"You're cold."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine."

"Didn't you bring a jumper?"

"No, well, I was only going to Quidditch and back, wasn't I? I didn't think I'd need one."

"Well... do you want to go home and get one?" I ask reluctantly.

He hesitates. "No, you're alright."

"I don't mind waiting."

We look at each other.

"OK," he says, uncertainly.

"So, shall I meet you at the restaurant, then?" I ask, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

He scrutinises me for a few long seconds, apparently thinking. "No," he says, decisively, "I've got a better idea. Give me your hand."

"What?"

He doesn't reply, just takes my hand in his before I can protest, and I instantly feel the familiar wrench of Apparition.

---

* * *

---

Seconds later when I open my eyes we are standing outside Harry and Ginny's house. I let go of his hand and stare at him.

"Are you sure?"

He nods. "Sick of all the messing around." He fishes in his pocket for his keys. "Come on."

I hold back. "No, I... I'll wait outside."

He ignores me, just grabs my hand once more and pulls me inside, into the front room where Harry and Ginny are sitting and glance up automatically when we enter. They both look astonished.

"Alright?" says Ron gruffly, "Don't get up, we're not stopping."

He pulls me through the living room, out into the hall and up the stairs to his room, where he pushes the door open and switches on the light.

I blink.

I always knew that Ron was prone to untidiness, but_ this_... I'm sure that somewhere underneath the piles of clothes, damp towels, old magazines and assorted detritus strewn everywhere, there is a bed, and a wardrobe, and possibly even a floor, but you can hardly see them for_ stuff_. It is an incredible mess. Ron tosses his broomstick onto what I can only assume must be the bed, then turns back to me, notices my hesitancy, and grins.

"You should have seen it before I tidied up," he jokes, then his face grows serious again and he stands there awkwardly watching me staring at the war zone that is his room.

"Umm..."

We smile tentatively at one another, then he remembers "Oh! Jumper!" and picks his way across the room to where there is a large wooden chest of drawers, all the drawers open at different angles and the contents spilling out onto the floor like innards. He pulls out the nearest jumper and, turning his back on me slightly, gives it a surreptitious sniff, pulls a face, and quickly shoves it back into the drawer. His face is bright red when he turns back to me.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"What for?"

"Well..." He shrugs. "You know... it's a bit of a tip, isn't it?"

_That's the understatement of the century._

"Why did you let it get this bad? You could tidy it up in seconds with a flick of your wand."

"Yeah." He looks a little embarrassed, as though the thought has only just occurred to him. "Dunno really. Look, um, would you mind if I had a quick shower? I'll be really, really quick, I promise."

"No, of course not. Go ahead."

"I just feel really manky, you know?"

"It's fine."

"You could wait downstairs if you want. I mean, if you'd rather not have to touch anything in here."

I picture myself sitting in awkward silence in Harry and Ginny's front room and shake my head. "I'll wait here."

"Well... if you're sure."

He pulls a none too clean looking towel from amongst the twisted mess of clothes on the floor, grabs some other random clothes from the heap, his face still crimson with humiliation, and leaves the room, avoiding my eyes the whole time. I move aside some of his clothes and perch gingerly on the edge of the bed to wait.

---

I wonder why he hasn't bothered to tidy the room. It would only have taken him a few seconds with the right spell, after all. The room is _tiny_ - about the size of his old childhood bedroom at The Burrow, in fact, and realising that sends a pang of guilt through me. He could have magically expanded it just as easily, though. He didn't _have_ to put up with it being this small. I remember him complaining bitterly on that first night he returned about the "sad, single bed" he had to sleep in. Well, he could have expanded that too. All I can think is that he didn't want to sleep on his own in a double bed, because he never had before, and it just reminded him that I wasn't there beside him.

---

I think… the reason he hasn't bothered to keep it tidy is because he hates it here so much. Because if he tidied up and made it feel like a proper home, he'd have to admit that he's really living here, with his sister, not just staying here as a temporary fix. _Temporary_, after nearly two years.

---

I wonder at him getting changed in the bathroom rather than in front of me, too. That doesn't suggest he still thinks of me as his girlfriend, does it? And yet, that kiss… alright, it was only on the forehead, but it makes it even harder to try and read him, what he wants from me, from tonight, from the future. The signals I'm getting so far are almost all positive, and I hardly dare hope that if things continue like this, I might be spending the night in his arms after all. Maybe even in this bed. I smile to myself. Of course, we'd have to _expand_ it first...

---

Wanting a distraction from my own thoughts, I gingerly pull out a magazine from under a pile of socks and can't help laughing. It's the February issue of _"Cannon Balls"_, the Chudley Cannons' monthly fan magazine, and beaming out from the front cover beneath is their new Peruvian Seeker, _'The Lad From Lima'_, Hernan Castillo. His wide grin reveals several missing teeth, and he bears a remarkable resemblance to a chipmunk. In another photograph he's shaking hands with the Cannons' much-derided and abused (by Ron, anyway) owner Ned Astley. I've heard Ron and Mike drunkenly bellowing the fans' song about him and his unconvincing wigs on more than one occasion.

_"Ned, Ned, what's that on your head? _

_Is it ali-ive, or i-is it dead? _

_Why don't you just wear a ha-at instead? _

_It looks like two squi-ir-rels fuuucking…"_

I heard the song long before I saw a picture of Ned Astley, and the awful thing is how uncannily accurate that description is. If I recall correctly, there's an even more obscene second verse about Mr. Astley's rumoured sexual practices, which _really_ doesn't bear repeating.

_"Interview with Hernan, pages 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7."_ I turn to page 3 and start reading.

---

Ron's back in ten minutes as promised, wearing cleanish clothes and with damp hair and smelling slightly of peppermint. He gives me a sheepish smile and tosses the wet towel on top of the bed where he found it. I try not to wince - it's not my towel or my bed after all - then suddenly notice what he's wearing and start to laugh.

"What's _that?"_

"What's what?"

I point my finger at his t-shirt. "That!"

He grins. "Oh,_ that_... it was a birthday present. D'you like it? It's cool, isn't it?"

He is wearing a white t-shirt with a Mr. Tickle cartoon on the front. Not many men would be happy to be seen out in public in a Mr. Men t-shirt, but then I suppose Ron wouldn't get the reference. He looks rather endearing in it, actually. In a faintly geeky kind of way. But cool? _No_. But then, he doesn't care about that kind of thing, about looking like an idiot in a kids' t-shirt or a pound shop Santa hat. Some people might consider it a negative trait, but I don't. He spent his entire childhood caring what other people thought about his clothes and pretending not to, and now he just genuinely doesn't care anymore. Fuck them all. I think that attitude - that glorious, sod the world attitude - is what allowed his pride to let him come back to me after everything that happened, and is why he's standing here now, still trying. So what if everyone else thinks he's making a huge mistake? Sod them, he wants to at least try. No, he hasn't given up on us yet, I'm sure of it, and I'm not going down without a fight either.

"Not cool, then?" he asks, looking amused.

I shake my head. "No, I like it. It suits you."

He laughs. "Right, because he's got long skinny arms like me and he's orange?"

"And presumably, ticklish."

"Actually, I kind of assumed he was the one doing the tickling. What with the long arms and all."

"Yes, all you need to do is get a little blue hat and paint yourself orange and you'll have your next fancy dress costume all ready."

He laughs out loud. "Yeah, but then I'd have to go naked, and I'm not sure anyone's ready for_ that_ sight just yet! Still, I suppose painting myself orange is the only way I'm ever gonna get a tan…"

He pats the front pockets of his trousers - wallet, keys - and the back pocket - wand - and looks at me expectantly.

"Right, then. Are we ready?"

"Weren't you going to take a jumper?"

"Oh, yeah. Good point."

He grabs a rather nice grass-green hooded sweatshirt with kangaroo pockets from the nearest heap of clothing and pulls it on over his head. "I suppose if we're going out in Hampstead I should probably hide Mr. Tickle." He chuckles. "God, that sounded filthy!"

"Only to_ you_," I retort.

He grins. "Actually, it could be worse, she wanted to get me one that said '_Nobody Knows I'm A Lesbian'_..."

I start to laugh, but then the laugh dies in my throat.

"She?"

He immediately stops smiling too. "Anna," he mumbles, "It was a present from Anna."

He twists a finger self-consciously in the hem of the t-shirt, and for almost a full minute neither of us seems to know what to say next, then we both start speaking at once.

"It's a good present."

"So, shall we go and get some dinner, then?"

"Yes," I nod, getting to my feet and forcing a smile on my face, "Let's go and get some dinner."

---

* * *

---

The restaurant is just as I remember it. The same crisp white linen tablecloths, the same dishes on the menu, even two years later, and the same second-rate oil paintings of Italian scenes on the walls. Ron turns straight to the desserts page of the menu and reports gleefully that they still have the twice-baked triple chocolate soufflé.

"That's the only reason you wanted to come here, isn't it?" I ask, affecting a weary sigh.

"Absolutely!" he grins, and we both laugh.

I suddenly remember that the last time we were here, Ron stormed out in a huff and I left shortly after, in floods of tears. It's not the best of omens, but I push it to the back of my mind. We share a bottle of wine - so much for staying sober - and some garlic bread, and I note that Ron fails to make his usual joke about there being no kissing later. Maybe he just assumes there's already no chance of that happening.

---

Neither of us wants to break the mood by bringing up the subject of_ us_, but we both know it's got to happen sooner or later. It's why I am here, after all. He just seems to have forgiven me a little bit just because I have made the first move, as though that was all he was waiting for. I think my Mum was right; he meant for me to come after him. He doesn't even seem angry anymore, although I know that can't last. We're talking like the old friends we used to be, not like two people who only a week ago were ripping each other's hearts out.

---

"I hope it's not going to be another really hot summer," he grumbles, pulling the hem of his t-shirt away from his body and fanning himself with it. "I mean, what happened to spring, that's what I'd like to know. Bloody English weather. Snowstorms in March, torrential rain in April, and August weather in bloody May!"

"Well, it _is_ nearly June," I say, reasonably. "And anyway, if it's hot earlier in the year it usually means a cool summer."

Ron looks as though he can hardly dare dream of such a thing. "Is that true?"

"I don't know," I admit, starting to laugh, "I might have made it up."

He laughs too. "It's alright for you, anyway. You go a nice brown colour and look all sexy in your little vest tops and flouncy skirts and sandals. _I_ just spend the entire summer sweating like a pig and looking like I've fallen into a vat of tomatoes."

I can't help laughing. "Yes, but in a _good _way..."

"Do you remember that heatwave we had a couple of years ago when it hit forty degrees? God, I thought I was gonna _die!"_

"How could I forget? I was living with _you_, remember?" I adopt a whiny drawl. _"'It's too hot, I can't sleep, I'm dying, why can't it rain, why can't we move to Norway, why can't it be September already, I can't sleep, it's too hot, I'm dying, don't touch me, I can't sleep, it's too hot -'"_

He makes a half-lunge for me across the table and I shriek and laugh out loud. "NO, don't!" A woman at the next table glares at me.

"Was I really that bad?" he asks, hanging his head in pretend shame.

"You were impossible," I smile.

"Well, it wasn't _my_ fault!" he protests, indignantly, "Forty degrees is _ridiculous_. It wasn't even that hot when we went to sodding _Egypt_, for God's sake." He shakes his head in disbelief. "It shouldn't be allowed to get above about twenty degrees in this country. We're not built for it."

"_You're_ not built for it, you mean…" I tease, and, feeling daring, I reach across to ruffle his hair.

He automatically jerks backwards out of my reach, and there is a horrible moment of physical awkwardness between us, made even more so by the nervous laugh that escapes my lips.

"What, did you think I was going to hit you or something?" I joke, weakly.

He looks mortified. "No, of course not. Sorry. It was just a reflex thing. Sorry."

_Silence. _Ron picks up his now empty wine glass and puts it down again.

"Anyway, it's ridiculous," he mumbles. "Forty degrees… _hah_..." His voice tails off into mutters.

"That was the summer we went to the South of France with my parents," I remind him, in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

"Was it?" he asks, doubtfully.

"Yes, 2003."

"Typical," he jokes, "The worst heatwave for about a century, and we decide to go on holiday somewhere three hundred miles closer to the Equator!"

We both laugh, and I silently vow never to complain about Ron's ability to joke his way out of any awkward situation ever again.

"I was looking at some of the photographs the other day, actually. There was a great one of you with one of those enormous watermelons from the market, do you remember?"

He raises his eyebrows. "I remember dropping it trying to get it into the boot of your dad's car, and it rolling down the hill and nearly causing a pile-up…"

We both laugh, and relax a little.

"That was a great holiday," he says, reminiscently, "Being driven around everywhere was brilliant. _Much_ more fun than Apparation."

"I could have done without my dad giving you that driving lesson, though. I don't know what he was thinking, letting you loose behind the wheel. In a _hire car!" _I shake my head in disbelief. "He's far too laidback for his own good sometimes…"

"Hey!" he protests, affecting outrage, "I didn't crash it, did I?"

"Only because you were in an empty car park! Even _I _couldn't crash in an empty car park!"

He laughs. "You're just pissed off because your dad said I was a better driver than you."

It's my turn to pretend to be outraged. "He did _not_ say that!"

He looks annoyingly smug. "He did. He said when he gave _you_ your first driving lesson, you nearly reversed into a ditch."

I am genuinely outraged now. "Oh, the big, fat liar! Anyway, it wasn't a _ditch_, it was a horse trough!"

Ron, who is midway through drinking a glass of water when I say this, accidentally snorts half of it up his nose, and I laugh so much at that, I get a stitch. Which, of course, only makes him laugh even _more_.

"Stop…" I beg, clutching at the pain in my side, "Please… hurts... too much…"

"I… can't…" he gasps, shoving his fist in his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound of his laughter.

"People… are… staring!"

"Don't… care!"

"You know, that was... our last... holiday together."

His laughter ceases so abruptly, it is like I have flicked a switch.

"Where's the bloody waiter?" he grumbles, as though I haven't even spoken, "We need some more water here." He presses his empty glass to his forehead in a futile attempt to cool himself down. "I tell you, if we get another summer like that this year, I'm moving to Shetland. Nice sensible summer temperature of about eleven degrees."

I seize upon this change of subject gratefully. "Yes, and near-constant rain, and a_ very_ long way for my parents to come and visit."

"We could Side-along them. And at least it would stop your Mum making any more surprise visits..."

"Yes, well... I did_ tell_ her… if you're going to turn up unannounced at the house of a young couple who've just moved in together, you've only yourself to blame if you see or hear something you don't want to."

"You were the one who gave her a spare key!"

"For emergencies! Not to let herself into the flat when she thought we were out to drop off a housewarming present!"

"To be fair, she_ did_ knock first. It's not her fault we were too, uh,_ preoccupied_ to hear the door." He starts laughing. "I think that was about the only time I've ever seen you go as red as me. Honestly, I nearly pissed myself when we went into the front room afterwards and found that brand new rug and a note from your Mum! Your_ face!_"

"Yes, well... My mother's famed dry sense of humour. '_I waited ten minutes but you seemed as though you might be busy for a while, so I've gone for a coffee around the corner. If you get this in the next half hour come and find me. If you don't - well, I'd say enjoy your weekend, but you seem to be doing that already. Give my love to Ron._'"

He chuckles. "Yeah, that 'Give my love to Ron' was hilarious. I can just imagine her saying that as well. She's got the driest sense of humour in the world, your Mum."

---

_My Mum. _I remember yesterday - the laughter, the crying, the revelations - and suddenly the whole reason we are here seems to come out of nowhere and hit me in the face. We should be talking about the future, not the past. We should be trying to sort things out between us. And yet, I can't seem to bring myself to break the mood, and a busy restaurant doesn't seem like the best place for such a private conversation. I don't really want the couple at the next table to know that my boyfriend slept with someone else after I_ dumped_ him, or that I am a crazy jealous bitch, but I imagine they'll go home feeling better about their own relationship, at least.

---

Actually, maybe a busy restaurant is_ exactly_ the right place for this conversation. At least he can't shout and swear at me, and I can't cry. We can't make a scene here; we'd actually have to have a proper, serious,_ adult_ conversation about our relationship. Unless he decides to storm out like he did last time we were here, of course. I wonder if he remembers that. I wonder if the_ waiters_ do. I wish we hadn't come here now. I wonder why he suggested it. Oh, stop it, Hermione. It's_ Ron._ He doesn't_ do_ ulterior motives. He suggested it because he doesn't go to restaurants very often and this was probably just the first one that came into his head. That and the twice-baked triple chocolate soufflé, of course.

"I saw her yesterday," I tell him.

"Who?"

"My mum. We… we had a good long talk."

Ron just looks at me and doesn't say anything.

"I realised a few things."

He glances down at his empty plate and rearranges his knife and fork. "Yeah?" he says, in a cracked sort of voice.

"Yeah."

I take a deep breath. Okay, so maybe this_ isn't_ the best place for this conversation, but we've spent the last eight hours in each other's company without resolving anything at all, and it's getting late. One of us has to make the first move. Apparently, it has to be me.

"Ron, I -"

With impeccable timing, the waiter appears and starts clearing away our plates, loudly.

"Would you like anything else to drink, sir, madam?"

"No, thank you," I say, briskly, wishing he would just hurry up and leave.

"Can we see the dessert menu, please?" interrupts Ron, eagerly.

"Certainly, sir."

The waiter produces a couple of menus and hands them to us with a flourish, before leaving us alone again.

"I thought you were having the chocolate soufflé?" I ask, unaccountably irritated.

He shrugs, but doesn't look up from his perusal of the menu.

"So why do you need to see the menu again?"

"I like to keep my options open."

I stare at him. "Do you?"

"Yeah, well, I might change my mind, mightn't I?"

"But you_ like_ the chocolate soufflé. You_ always_ have the chocolate soufflé."

"Not always."

"Yes._ Always._" I don't know why I'm getting so annoyed about this.

He cocks his head on one side and considers. "Well… they might run out of the chocolate soufflé. Then I'd need a back-up."

"A back-up?" I repeat.

"Yeah. I mean, obviously, I'd_ rather_ have the chocolate soufflé - the chocolate soufflé is my favourite thing in the whole _world_ - but if for some reason I_ can't_ have it… well, it doesn't mean I'm gonna give up pudding, does it?"

The waiter returns.

"Actually," says Ron, brightly, "It's not really the weather for a hot pudding." He turns to the waiter. "Have you got chocolate ice-cream?"

"Of course, sir."

"Right, well, I'll have that, then. Hermione?"

I have lost my appetite all of a sudden. "I'll just have a coffee."

"Oh, come on, have a pudding with me, it won't kill you!"

"I'm not hungry."

"Nor am I, but that's not the point. It's_ pudding_. There's _always_ room for pudding. Have some ice-cream."

"I really don't want any."

"If you change your mind, I'm not letting you have any of mine."

"_Fine_." I turn to the carefully blank-faced waiter, who has no doubt heard this exact exchange between a million other couples. "Just a white coffee, please. Decaff with skimmed milk, if you have it."

When I look back Ron is watching me across the table with his arms folded and a half-resigned, half-amused expression on his face.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "Decaff coffee, skimmed milk, no pudding… you need_ some_ pleasures in your life, you know."

"Well, that's what I've got _you_ for," I say, without thinking. He stares at me for half a second, then explodes into laughter, causing several people at nearby tables to stop their conversations and glare at us.

"Ah," he says, mischievously, when he has recovered, "But I'm only your_ second_ favourite thing after books, if I remember rightly."

"Well…" I lean forward and lower my voice conspiratorially. "I'll let you into a secret... I lied."

He looks as though all his Christmases have come at once. "I get first place over books?"

"You get first, second and third place over books. And fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh."

Ron has gone positively pink with delight now, although some of it may be the wine.

"Ron," I begin, trying to steer the conversation back to the subject at hand, "I need to tell you -"

But he isn't listening.

"Excuse me!" he calls across the restaurant, waving wildly at the waiter and causing yet more diners to turn and glare at him, "Can we have two spoons with the ice-cream, please?"

"Ron, I told you, I don't_ want_ -"

"Tough, you're having ice-cream with me. Even if I have to feed it to you myself." A wide grin spreads across his face. "Now_ there's_ an idea…"

He deliberately kicks my foot under the table and I realise that the moment to raise the subject of_ us_ has well and truly passed. I know it probably isn't healthy, for us to keep putting it off, and to sit here flirting with each other and practically playing footsie under the table when there are Things We Need To Discuss, but right now, I just don't care.

After we have finished our coffee and ice-cream, Ron sits up and stretches his arms over his head.

"Shall we get the bill?" he asks, stifling a yawn.

"Okay."

We sit there for a few more minutes, pay the bill, and still don't move. I don't want to leave just yet. I don't want that moment of awkwardness when we get outside and aren't sure if it is the end of the evening or not, whether we should be saying goodbye.

---

And besides, the longer I can keep him here with me, the less likely he is to remember he has another offer. Maybe even a_ better_ offer. Somewhere else he could be. Someone else he could be with. He's practically on a promise, after all. What was it she said?_ "Call me anyway, yeah?"_ He went to her last week when we argued, and I'm not at all confident he won't do it again. Bloody, bloody Anna. She's not even here and yet the presence of her hangs over us like a cloud. We've had the chance to have this conversation twice now, and both times he's been the one who cut it off before it could go any further. Maybe he's trying to tell me something. Maybe he's trying to say that it doesn't matter. Maybe just me_ being_ here, coming after him… maybe that's enough.

---

Or maybe I'm just kidding myself. Even if we_ don't_ have this conversation now, it still has to happen sooner or later. I need to explain some things. About Anna, and the reasons I left. I need to tell him he is the only thing I want. And there are things he needs to tell me, too. About his relationship with Anna, even though half of me doesn't want to ask, for fear of the answer. About how he feels about me, about us, about the future. And I need to ask him to come back. I_ need_ him to come back. I don't think I can bear even one more night without him.

---

"Sodoyoufancyawalkthen?" he asks, abruptly, sounding as though he has been building up to asking the question for quite a while.

"Yes!" I blurt, with relief, "Yes, I really, really do..."

---

* * *

---

We walk for a while across the Heath, taking advantage of the last few dying rays of sunshine and talking of old times, then stop and sit on a bench for a rest. We both fall silent and just sit there enjoying each other's company and the peace of our surroundings. At some point, though, the silence stops being companionable and starts becoming rather tense and pointed. I know we're both thinking the same thing, that darkness is falling, and we_ still_ haven't talked about what we came here to discuss.

---

And yet, I know that as soon as this conversation starts, that's it, there's no going back. I know we're both going to end up saying some hurtful things to one another, and I know he's going to lose his temper and shout at me. Once this starts, once I move the first pawn, it won't stop until it's over. One way or another. At least until that moment when one of us finally breaks the silence there's still_ hope_.

---

I glance sideways at him. He's sitting low on the bench with his legs stretched out in front of him, hands stuffed in his pockets, just watching the sun sinking behind the horizon. Neither of us has spoken a single word in over twenty minutes. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

---

"So, are we going to talk about this, then?" His voice is low, but firm.

I look at him, but he keeps his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

"I… I hardly know where to begin."

He nods. "Right. Well… shall_ I_ start, then?"

I can hear the tension in his voice, and wonder if he's been sitting there for the last twenty minutes preparing this little speech in his head. This is already not going the way I had hoped, and I wish I had found the nerve to have this conversation earlier, when I could have got my point across first. Now, of course, it's too late. I can only nod, and after a few moments of silence he lets out a long sigh, runs his hand quickly through his hair, and begins.

"All I ever wanted -"

He stops again, weighing his words carefully.

"All I ever_ thought_ about, the whole time you were gone, was what it would be like if we got back together. What I'd say to you, what you'd say to me." He gives a short laugh. "Obviously, you'd be crying and saying how sorry you were, how you'd never do it again, how you'd been_ so_ miserable without me..."

"I_ was!_"

He ignores me. "And then we'd have a big row and fall into bed, and suddenly everything would be alright again, and it'd be like you'd never left. Which is pretty much what happened, only -"

He stops again, and for almost a minute he doesn't say anything at all, then he sucks in a deep breath and says, quietly, "What I never thought about was that I might not be able to forgive you, or that you wouldn't be quite as_ grateful_ about it as I thought you should be."

"I_ am_ grateful!"

"No, you're not. You're… you're angry, and jealous, and resentful, and I think you kind of hate me a bit for the Luna thing, which I should have seen coming, to be honest, and I think… I think I kind of hate_ you_ a little bit, too. Maybe even more than a little bit."

_"Ron…"_ I plead, but I can't go any further. What do you say to someone who tells you they hate you?

"The thing is, Hermione, that's actually okay. It's probably even sort of normal, after everything that's happened. We both kind of hate each other. But - and this is the bit that makes me want to punch myself in the face - I still -"

He stops again. "I'm still_ here_, aren't I? I should be in the pub with my friends, having a laugh, getting nicely drunk, and instead, I'm here, having an argument with you. I_ chose_ to come here, knowing it would just end up in an argument with you. What does that tell you?"

I can only shrug.

"Well, apart from the fact that I'm a total sucker for punishment, it should tell you what you already ought to know. How much I -"

He makes a frustrated sort of sound and changes tack again.

"These last two years… I would have done anything -_ anything_ - to have you back, Hermione. It was the only thing I wanted. And now I've got my wish, and it's nothing at all like I thought it would be. I mean, you_ seem_ to want me around, but five minutes later you're snapping my head off and I don't know why. I know why_ I'm_ angry, but I don't know why_ you_ are. _Is_ it just the Luna thing? Is it just because you've got used to living on your own and you're fed up with picking my socks off the floor? Is it something_ else?_ Something I've said? Something I've_ done?"_

I open my mouth to speak, but he doesn't wait for an answer_. _

"The thing is, it's not just you, either. The other day, you laughed at something I said, and I was suddenly so angry, all I could think was, 'You don't get to be happy, not after what you did, not after everything I went through because of you. It shouldn't be that easy.'"

He turns to me with wide eyes. "Seriously, what's wrong with me? I was angry because you were_ happy!_ How fucked up is _that?" _

"You know, I wake up sometimes and wonder what the hell I'm doing here. Like... this is what I wanted, you're there next to me, everything's supposed to be back to normal, but... it isn't. I don't know what to do about that. Sometimes I just want to run as far away from you as possible and never come back. And it's ridiculous, I should be happy about it,_ I _should be -" - he makes ironic air quotes around the word - "_grateful_ to God or fate or whatever that I got what I wanted, and some of the time I am, but the rest of the time… When it's good it's really good, but when it's_ bad_…"

He rubs his face wearily. "I just... it's like we're_ broken_, Hermione..."

"No," I say, urgently, "No, please - you don't understand -"

"No,_ you_ don't understand! I don't think you've got the slightest idea how hard it's been for me to come back here, when every other sodding person I know thinks I need my head examined! I have thought about leaving nearly every single day, Hermione. I would have done if - if -"

"If you hadn't been sick."

"_Yes!"_

"Why?"

"Because… because you just seemed so _angry_ with me all of the time. I thought you were gearing up to dump me again, so I thought I might as well get in first."

"Get in_ first?"_

His face registers first shame, then anger. "You really don't get it, do you? Do you know how many people told me what an idiot I was to take you back, how you'd just chuck me again and I'd only have myself to blame? I couldn't go through all that again. So, well… I just thought, at least if I leave first, I won't have been dumped twice by the same girl. 'Cos that would have just been totally pathetic."

"Why did you think I was going to dump you again? I was never going to… to… not for a second!"

He shrugs. "Well, that's what it_ felt_ like."

"We knew it wasn't going to be easy, we knew there'd be rows… I was never going to leave, Ron. I've only just got you_ back_. And I'm sorry if you felt I was angry with you. I didn't mean to be. I was just… confused. I thought I was what you wanted but you kept talking about another girl. I couldn't work out your relationship, where she fitted in, where_ I_ fitted in. I felt like the third wheel. She made you laugh, and I was just so uptight and afraid…"

"Of what?"

"You leaving."

"_Me_ leaving?"

"Because you_ could_, Ron. I couldn't leave, it was my own flat. Not that I wanted to. But you… it just felt like everything was hanging by a thread, and at any minute I would say or do something wrong and you'd just leave, and I wouldn't be able to stop you. Even when we were happy I always had that fear at the back of my mind."

He stares out into the distance for several long seconds. "I thought about it," he admits. "I thought about it a lot. I just couldn't believe it could be that easy." He gives an ironic laugh. "And I was right, wasn't I? It wasn't."

"It would have been fine if it hadn't been for Anna."

"Don't blame her for this!" he says, hotly.

"I'm not," I say gently, "I meant, if it hadn't been for my jealousy over Anna."

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, then he says, "Yeah, but it wasn't just that, was it? There were lots of reasons. It wasn't just the jealousy thing. There was all that stuff going on in_ my_ head too."

"Why didn't you?"

"Leave?"

I nod.

He grimaces. "Apart from the dodgy saveloy, you mean? No idea. Triumph of hope over experience?" He gives a short unhappy laugh. "I suppose… I suppose every time I thought about it I kept picturing myself back in my sad little room at Harry and Ginny's on my own again, and that… that was_ worse_."

"At least you were getting laid," I muse, before I can stop myself.

_"What?"_

I look up at the tension in his voice. "Oh. Sorry. It's what you said to Ginny when she asked if you were happy here. Don't you remember?"

He bites his lip and looks away. "Not really."

I shrug, helplessly. "Well, you were a little bit drunk."

We sit there in silence for a few long seconds then he blurts out, "Did I_ really_ say that?"

"You were joking," I say, lamely, "It was just a joke. I didn't take offence by it."

"It was a stupid joke if it was," he says, angrily. "I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't."

"That's not why I came back."

"I_ know_, Ron."

We sink into silence once more, him gnawing his fingernails and looking miserable, me watching him out of the corner of my eye.

"All I do is make you unhappy," I mumble.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't deny it.

"Ron...?"

He shakes his head, and I realise he isn't even listening. "I thought if we just got back to normal again like nothing had happened, if I just didn't_ think_ about it... I'd be able to forgive you, but..." He tails off, looking lost.

"It's not that easy?"

"No," he admits, "It's not."

"Do you think you'll_ ever_ be able to forgive me?" I ask timidly.

A shrug. "I can't tell you that. I don't know myself."

"Well, when…?"

"It's been five weeks, Hermione._ Five weeks!_ You can't possibly expect me to suddenly get over everything that's happened after only five weeks._"_

"I know," I mumble, suddenly feeling hopeless and overwhelmed and blinking back the tears that threaten to slide down my cheek. We sit there in silence for several minutes, just staring out at the darkening night sky.

"Do you know what I was thinking last Sunday after I left?" he says abruptly.

I give a small unhappy shrug.

"_Fuck you_. That's what I was thinking. Fuck you for doing this to me again."

I don't know what to say to that. There are only so many times I can say, "I'm sorry".

He plucks a leaf from the bush beside him and starts shredding it in his hands. "But then I started thinking about what you said."

"Which part?" I ask, alarmed that he might have taken something I only blurted out in anger or frustration, to heart, and been dwelling on it all week.

"About how I would feel if it was the other way around. If I'd seen some bloke put his hand on your leg."

I watch his long, slender fingers destroying another leaf. "And?"

"I'd want to chop his fucking hands off," he admits, with a fierceness that sends a shiver through me.

"Y- you would?"

He looks horribly ashamed all of a sudden. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that, should I? But it's true. I can't help how I_ feel_, Hermione."

"Well, I can't help how_ I_ feel,_ either!_ That's what I've been trying to explain to you. I know it's not logical to be jealous of Anna, but I can't help it. When I see you together… something just snaps inside me. Like you used to be with Viktor."

"It's not the same thing," he says stubbornly, "You went_ out_ with Viktor. He was your first kiss. Me and Anna are just_ friends_."

"I know, but… you and_ I_ were just friends. You and_ Luna_ were just friends -"

"Yeah, ten years ago! And she was_ your_ friend too!"

"No, I know, but - I'm trying to explain - it's_ different_ with Anna. You act like a couple. You flirt with each other -"

"We don't fl-"

"You_ do_, Ron! It doesn't matter whether you_ mean_ to or not, you do! For God's sake, she was practically sitting in your lap last week in the pub! She buys you presents!"

"It was my_ birthday!"_

"She buys you_ girlfriend_ presents!"

He gives a snort of disbelief and I can see that I am losing him. I watch him pull another angry fistful of leaves from the bush beside him and let them scatter to the floor at his feet.

"She's my_ friend_," he growls.

"Friends don't put their hands on friends' knees."

"Sometimes they do! For fuck's sake, she had her hand on my _knee_, it's not like she was sucking me off in front of the whole pub!"

Anger surges within me and I have to physically restrain myself from slapping him. "This isn't a _joke_, Ron!"

He mutters something that is no doubt sarcastic under his breath.

"What did you say?" I demand, my voice quivering with anger.

"I _said_," - his tone is positively dangerous now - "That's _exactly_ what it is. A _joke_."

I gape at him. "You just admitted you understood how I feel! You said you'd feel exactly the same way! Why are we arguing about it if you understand?"

"Because… because... that's not the point! I _explained_ that to you! I told you she didn't mean anything by it, I told you she's like that with everyone -"

"I don't _care _about _everyone! _I care about _you!_"

He gives an ironic laugh. "Do you?"

"How can you even _ask_ me that? Of _course_ I do!"

"Oh, right, so you _care_ about me, but you don't believe a word I say…"

"I _do_ believe you! It's Anna I don't -"

"Yeah, _obviously!_ That'd be why, when I told you nothing was going on with Anna, you started accusing me of shagging practically every girl I've ever bloody _met_, then, would it?"

"No, I -"

This whole argument is running away from me. I was stupid to ever think it would be as easy as just coming here and explaining my point of view in a calm, reasonable manner. That he would just accept my apology without question and welcome me back with open arms. The whole plan seems laughable now. An argument isn't one-way. I, of all people, should know that. He was never going to sit here and listen politely while I listed my points in order. This isn't an _essay_.

"If you'd just let me _explain_ -"

He shakes his head. "What's there to explain? You're supposed to _trust _me, and you don't, do you?"

"I do!" I protest, but my words sound hollow, even to me.

Ron makes a noise of disgust and kicks at the ground with the heel of his shoe.

"_No_," he mutters, angrily, "You _don't._"

I open my mouth and close it again. "Fine," I say resignedly, "You want my trust… tell me what happened on your birthday."

"Oh, not_ that_ again!"

"Yes,_ that_ again! I know I haven't gone about it the right way, but if you'd just been honest with me from the start…"

"I didn't lie to you," he says, through gritted teeth.

"You didn't exactly tell me the whole truth, either."

"Yeah, well, I didn't think it was any of your_ business_… Seeing as how we weren't going out anymore, because you_ dumped_ me..."

"Fine. I deserve that. But you must see it from my point of view… You told me you went to your Mum's for a meal, and then I found out from Anna - not from you, from a complete stranger -"

"She's not a complete stranger!"

"_Not from you! -_ that actually you'd been out clubbing with_ her_ instead, and when I asked you about it, you refused to talk about it. What was I supposed to think?"

He gives a violent shrug. "You were supposed to_ trust_ me," he mutters.

"It's not that I don't trust you, Ron, or that I don't believe you, it's just… I'm asking you to please, just tell me the truth. Tell me what happened on your birthday, and then we need never have this conversation again."

"Nothing happened!"

I finally snap. "How do you expect me to trust you if you won't be honest with me?"

"There's nothing to tell -"

"I've already heard most of it from Harry and Ginny anyway, so you might as well just tell me."

He gives a visible start. "Oh."

"Yes._ Oh."_

He is silent for almost a whole minute, then his shoulders slump in defeat, and he mumbles, "It's nothing, really. I just had a big row with Ginny, that's all."

"What about?"

"Stuff."

I bite my lip in frustration. Fine, so he's not going to make this easy for me. "What stuff?"

He gives a heavy sigh. "Oh, you know, the usual. Me being a selfish fuck-up and wasting my life. That sort of thing."

"And this happened where?"

"At my Mum and Dad's. I was just... well, you know, it was my_ birthday!_ I didn't exactly want to be spending it with my entire family, and I definitely didn't want to make a big thing of it, but you know what my family are like. You're never allowed to be on your own, not for five fucking seconds."

"Why did you want to be on your own?" I ask, curiously.

He fixes me with a glare. "I just did. You_ know_ why."

I feel my face growing hot under cover of darkness._ Because of me._

"And that's what you and Ginny argued about?"

He sighs loudly again. "Sort of. I was late - two and a half hours late, to be precise - and she -"

"Why were you late?"

"I was in the pub." He gives a mirthless laugh. "Could you have guessed? With some blokes from work. I was only going for one but then everyone kept buying me free drinks because it was my birthday and the longer I sat there the more I didn't want to go home, I just wanted to stay in the pub and get quietly drunk. Anyway, I knew they'd all be sitting there waiting for me and that everyone would just have a go at me when I eventually showed up, so I just decided I wouldn't bother. Fuck the lot of them."

"So why did you change your mind?"

"Oh, you know. The usual Weasley family guilt trip._ 'Mum's been slaving away all day in the kitchen, and we've all made a special effort for your birthday, the least you can do is turn up on time and be grateful!'"_

"Then what happened?"

He shrugs. "I had a giant row with Ginny and I left."

"Where did you go?"

An ironic little laugh. "Stonehenge."

_"What?"_

"Well, I realised I'd never seen it, so..."

It's my turn to shake my head. "Okay. So you went to Stonehenge. Then what?"

He averts his eyes from mine. "I went to meet Anna."

A shiver goes through me._ This is it, the truth at last._

"Oh. At her house?"

"At the pub. You know, where she works. She said if I came in before eleven she'd buy me a birthday drink, and it was a quarter to eleven, so... I was always going to go there anyway, though. She was my excuse to get away from Mum and Dad's early."

I try to keep my voice level. "So you stayed with her?"

"Yeah, but I know what you're going to say, Hermione, and you're wrong. It wasn't like that. It's_ still_ not like that. She's my friend, that's all. I slept on the sofa."

"I wasn't going to say anything!" I protest, even though that is_ exactly_ what I am thinking.

"Barry lives there too, don't forget, and her brother. It's not a big house, Hermione. Do you seriously think I could get away with shagging his daughter under his own roof and still be on the team?"

I can only shrug. It does seem like a valid point.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"I don't know. I_ want_ to..."

"Look, I_ like_ Anna -"

"She's beautiful."

"_You're_ beautiful!"

"She makes you laugh."

"_Harry_ makes me laugh, but I don't want to_ shag_ him!"

"And she's smart, too, and tall, and sexy, and -"

"_You're_ all of those things! Well, except the tall bit. Hermione, this is mad, I -"

I cut him off quickly, not wanting to go any further down this path. "So what happened then? You just stayed at her house for one night, did you?"

He frowns. "I thought you said you'd already heard most of this from Ginny," he says suspiciously.

"Yes, but -"

"Then you'll already know I stayed there the rest of the week, won't you? Or were you just trying to catch me out?"

"_No!_ I wouldn't -"

He laughs, bitterly. "You don't trust me at all, do you?"

"It's not about that -"

"That's_ exactly_ what it's about!"

"No. It isn't. It's about you not being honest with me. If you had just_ told_ me you'd gone clubbing with Anna on your birthday instead of avoiding the subject -"

"I didn't_ tell_ you because a) it wasn't any of your sodding business, and b) it_ wasn't my birthday!_ If you'd asked me what I did on the Saturday_ after_ my birthday, I'd have bloody_ told_ you! Do you want a list of everything I've done and who with for the whole of the last two years? November 18th 2005: I went to the pub with a couple of guys from work, I had two pints of beer, and I got a Cornish pasty on the way home! Fuck's sake! Why do you even care that I went clubbing with Anna anyway?"

"You hate clubbing!"

"I've been_ once_, Hermione! Well, twice now. I didn't really like it much the first time, no, but does that mean I'm never allowed to do it again?_ Jesus!"_

I am silent for a few seconds, feeling somewhat chastened by his outburst. "Why didn't you just tell me all this before?"

"Because I didn't think it was_ important!_ All I did was stay a few nights at a friend's house after an argument with my sister, how the hell was I supposed to know you'd make so much of it? If I'd known you were sitting there stewing about it for the last five weeks, of course I'd have told you! But you didn't_ ask_, Hermione! If you'd just_ asked_..."

I bite my lip and blink back the tears.

"Anna's my_ friend_," he says, coolly, "And yeah, I think she's brilliant, actually, but that doesn't mean I want to go_ out_ with her. She told me this story once... she went to a nightclub, met this bloke, went back to his place and shagged him, then he fell asleep and she got bored and went back to the club, where she got off with someone _else_. She's just a little bit_ scary_, Hermione."

"Oh," is all I can think of to say, although my heart is already feeling lighter.

"If it hadn't been for her... that night we went out clubbing was the first time I've been out of the house in_ months._ She said I needed taking out of myself. She said…"

He flushes slightly.

"I was complaining about not being able to meet women, and she said it was because even though I was single, I wasn't acting like it. Everything about me was telling women I already had a girlfriend, because mentally I was still thinking of_ you_ as my girlfriend, even though I hadn't seen you in nearly two years. If it wasn't for her I might have gone on like that forever. Still thinking that one day you might change your mind. Maybe if you'd met someone else it would have been easier, but as long as we had Harry in common, there was always that connection. I knew - or I thought I did - that you_ hadn't_ met someone else, and as long as I could cling to that, there was still hope. Pathetic, I know."

"It's not pathetic," I mumble.

"Well, yeah, it_ is_," he says dryly, "But anyway, that's why she suggested we go to this club. Stop me moping around."

"It was her suggestion, then?"

"Yeah, obviously. How many nightclubs do you think_ I_ know the names of?"

"What sort of music was it?"

He shrugs. "Dunno. That thumpy-thumpy kind of rubbish. Not really my sort of thing."

"Did you dance?" I realise that I'm asking a lot of questions, but I_ need to know_.

"A bit. If you can call it dancing. Took me about three hours to properly relax and enjoy myself. Didn't help that I was surrounded by loads of blokes with their shirts off, mind."

"What?" I say slowly, realising what he must mean, "You don't m-?" I stifle a laugh. "Ron... did you go to a_ gay_ club?"

He grins sheepishly. "Yeah, well, Anna said that was the best place to meet women 'cos there wasn't much competition and they were all off their guard."

"_Excuse_ me? Off their_ guard?"_

He holds his hands up in mock-defence. "Hey, she's the one that said it, not me! She said they'd be all relaxed and happy 'cos they didn't have to worry about some drunken idiot trying to chat them up, or whether their hair looked nice, or having some bloke checking out their arse. So, you know, you could get talking to them without any of the usual pressure."

He shoots me a nervous sideways glance, as though asking for my permission to continue.

"Go on..." I say, wearily.

"Anyway," he goes on, flashing me a grateful smile, "Once you were getting on alright, they'd start to think, 'Mm, he's a nice bloke, shame all the good ones are gay', at which point you casually let it drop that you're_ not_ gay, and they get all excited and jump on you. Well, that's the theory, anyway. Anna says that straight blokes who go to gay clubs are better in bed because they're more comfortable with their sexuality."

This is such a bizarre line to hear from Ron's mouth that I laugh out loud.

"What?" he demands, pretending to take offence, "You're saying I'm not?"

I just shake my head, laughing too much to speak, and when I've finally recovered, I ask, "So did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Meet any girls."

He grins. "No. Well -"

My heart does a little back-somersault.

"Not unless you count the woman I was standing next to at the bar who I offered to buy a drink and told me to, 'Fuck off, Ginger'…"

I laugh out loud. "Oh, dear!"

"I mean, how did she even know I was trying to chat her up, anyway?" he asks, indignantly, "Do I look particularly straight or something?"

He actually sounds offended, and I am seized with the desire to give him a big, warm hug.

"You weren't wearing your Mr. Tickle t-shirt, were you?" I tease.

_"No!" _he retorts, and then looks thoughtful. "Maybe that's it, maybe I don't dress well enough to be gay. Or maybe she saw me trying to dance."

"Or_ maybe_, Ron," I say, dryly, "It's just that gay men don't usually go around buying strange women drinks."

He brightens. "Oh. Yeah. That would probably be it, then."

We both laugh.

"So did any _men_ try to chat you up?" I ask, mischievously.

He flushes slightly. "No. Well - I dunno, do I? I'm not that good at reading the signs with _women_, let alone blokes. I did ask Anna what I should do if anyone tried to talk to me, and she said the number one thing I _shouldn't_ do was what all straight blokes in gay nightclubs always do, which is to panic and blurt out, _'I'm not gay!' _So this bloke started talking to me at the bar, and I didn't tell him I wasn't gay, like she said, and we ended up chatting for about an hour. Nice bloke, actually. From Torquay."

I hide my smile. Trust Ron to find someone from Devon to talk to.

"Anyway," he says, going even redder, "It was a bit embarrassing, actually, 'cos then he asked me for my phone number, and obviously I'm not on the phone, so… well, I told him that and he went a bit mental, called me a wanker, and stormed off." He throws me a pleading look. "What the hell was _that_ all about?"

"Ron," I say, gently, "_Everyone's _on the phone these days."

"I'm not!" he says, hotly.

"No, because you're a _wizard_. Which I presume you didn't tell him?"

"Well... _no_," he admits.

"So try looking at it from his point of view. He'd met someone he thought was interested, invested a good hour of the evening talking to you, only for you to not only snub him, but apparently lie about it to his face, too. It probably looked as though you were leading him or something."

"Oh," mumbles Ron, now looking about as red-faced as I have ever seen him, "Yeah, I see what you mean."

I shake my head. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation."

"Nor can I, let's talk about something else."

I ignore him. "So that was your sole attempt to chat up girls, was it?"

He gives a rueful smile. "Well, I_ did_ get talking to this Japanese girl… I thought I was doing really well 'til she stood up and I realised she was only about four foot ten. Seriously, I felt like Hagrid."

I burst out laughing and he grins. "Well, I'm glad you think it's funny. My spectacular failure with women."

"It's not funny, Ron. It's_ wonderful_. I'm glad. Although the thought of the terrified expression on your face surrounded by a load of sweaty gay men with their tops off... now that_ is_ funny..."

"It wasn't because they were_ gay,"_ he protests, "It was because they were naked and sweaty. They'd shake their hair about and the sweat would fly all over the place, it was disgusting."

"So you didn't take_ your_ shirt off, then?"

"No, I did not! Come on, Hermione, you've seen me without my shirt on before, it's not something innocent members of the public should be subjected to."

"Oh, I don't know..."

He smiles slightly. "Anyway, they had those funny lights that show up everything white, like bits of fluff on your clothes and girls' bras. Or me with my shirt off. I'd have been lit up like a Christmas tree."

When I have stopped laughing I shake my head and ask, "So Anna was giving you pulling advice, was she?"

"Sort of. She's a bit more upfront than me, though, so I don't know how useful it was. She'd just go up to some bloke she liked the look of and start talking to him, and I'd never do that. Not without a few drinks in me first, anyway. I suppose it's easier if you're a girl."

"Not necessarily."

"Well, it's easier for_ Anna_, anyway. It's ridiculous, we went to a gay nightclub and out of the three of us, me, her and Adam - two blokes, one actually gay - the straight girl was the only one who pulled."

I stare at him. "What, she got off with someone?"

"Not just got off with, actually went_ home_ with. I was asleep on her sofa about two hours later when she came in and she told me all about it. Unfortunately."

We are both silent for a few seconds.

"_See?_" he says pointedly, "Would she have done that if she fancied me?"

I remain silent.

"Exactly!" he says, with an air of triumph, as though that's the last word on the matter.

---

I am not so sure myself. And anyway, this was nearly three months ago, it's entirely possible that she didn't fancy him then but has realised she does since. A lot can happen in three months. Maybe that four days he spent at her house after the argument with Ginny was the bonding experience that brought them together. Seeing her literally rush to his defence earlier was something of a wake-up call. It's more than just that she fancies him. I think she might actually be in love with him. Of course, I would never tell him that. He wouldn't believe me, for a start. He'd think it was just me being jealous again. And besides, based on bitter experience, that's something he's never going to work out for himself unless she admits it to his face. I cross my fingers in my pocket that she gets those extra shifts at the shelter she's been wanting so badly.

---

"Did you tell her?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

"Tell who?"

"Anna!"

"About what?"

I just raise my eyebrows at him and he instantly stops pretending he doesn't know what I'm talking about.

"No, I didn't_ tell_ her! Why the fuck would I_ tell_ her? What was I supposed to say? Oh_ hi_, Anna, by the way, my girlfriend thinks you fancy me? I don't_ think_ so."

"Well, you must have said_ something_... didn't she ask why you were there?"

"She doesn't fancy me, Hermione," he says stubbornly, "I'm not that irresistible."

I can only shrug.

He shakes his head. "I don't know what your problem is. Anna_ likes_ you."

"No, she doesn't. She's just pretending she does so I look bad next to her."

He sighs and rubs his eyes, wearily. "Do you know what she said about you, the first time she met you?"

My insides constrict unpleasantly. "What?" I ask, weakly.

"She said you were much classier than she expected!" He beams at me, as though this is somehow a massive compliment.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His smile wavers. "What?"

"What had you been saying about me that led her to believe I_ wouldn't_ be classy?"

He looks horrified. "No, that's not - you've got the wrong end of the stick! She meant you_ are_ classy, that's what she meant. Just because, you know, she knew_ me_, so she obviously didn't expect I'd have managed to pull someone like you, that's all."

_"Pull?"_

"Go out with, then."

"Stop digging, Ron, you're making it worse."

"No, no, she meant because, you know, I'm like a three and you're an eight -"

"I'm a_ what?_"

He looks uncertain. "You're an eight. You know, out of ten."

I can't decide whether to be pleased that he thinks I'm an eight, or offended that I'm being measured in this way.

"So what's Anna?"

"What?"

"If I'm an eight, what would you say Anna is?"

He opens his mouth and closes it again quickly. "Anna's a seven," he says, just a fraction of a second too late.

I shake my head. "Nice try. Anna's obviously a nine."

He doesn't say anything for a few long seconds then he sighs. "Give me a break, Hermione, I'm trying here."

"What, by marking me out of_ ten?"_

"No, that was just - I'm trying to say, Hermione, that I know I'm punching above my weight with you. That's what Anna meant, she just meant, she didn't expect someone like me to have a girlfriend like you. You're, you know,_ classy_, and I'm... well,_ me_..."

I have finally run out of objections. "Well...thank you," I say, grudgingly.

"You're a hard person to pay a compliment to, you know that?"

"I know. I'm sorry. Mum says I should take things more at face value and not analyse them so much."

He holds his hands up in mock-defence. "I'm saying nothing."

We smile awkwardly at each other then look quickly away.

"You're not a three, Ron."

He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say "Yeah, right".

"And I'm certainly not an eight, although it was nice of you to say I am. I really think I'm more of a five, to be honest."

_Two can play the self-deprecation game, Mister. _

"No way are you a five," he says, automatically. "_I'm_ more like a five…"

"Well, if you're a five and I'm a five, I reckon that makes the two of us together a perfect ten…"

He laughs out loud. "I_ knew_ there was a reason I asked you out!"

"Because I can count?"

"For your brilliant mind, of course."

"Well, I hope that wasn't the_ only_ reason…"

"No, there were, uh, a couple of other good reasons too…"

"Leave my gently rolling hills out of it, please," I say, primly.

He chuckles. "Must I?" he asks, in a wistful voice.

I slap his arm lightly, and we both laugh, then I remember the reason we are here, all the things I promised myself I'd say.

"Ron…" I say, tentatively, "About Anna…"

His face clouds over immediately. "What about her?"

"I just need to explain some things."

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

He just shrugs and folds his arms defensively across his chest.

I take a deep breath. "When I met Anna… the moment I met her I knew she liked you. I knew I had competition. You probably didn't even notice, but that first week I went out and spent an absolute _fortune_ on new sheets and scented candles and sexy underwear -"

He bristles. "Well, I didn't ask you to! I don't care about all that stuff, you know I don't!"

"Yes, I know, I just... I suppose I just felt as though I wasn't_ enough_ for you anymore, on my own."

His mouth falls open in shock. "What?_ Why?_"

"Because I messed everything up so badly and why would you still want me after that, when you could get an _Anna? _She's smart and beautiful and funny -"

He throws his hands up in frustration. "Oh, for fuck's - we've been _through_ all this, Hermione! I _told_ you, _you're_ all of those things!"

"Yes, but _she_ didn't _dump_ you and ruin your life, did she?"

He opens his mouth to retort, and then clamps it shut again. Apparently even he can't think of an answer to that one.

"You _see?_ You see why I was so scared? And then that Sunday in the pub -"

"Oh, Christ, not this again!"

"Just let me finish! That Sunday in the pub… OK, I admit, I'd had a couple of glasses of wine, and I was a bit wound up because you were late, but it wasn't _just_ that… I wanted to spend time with _you_, not all your _friends_ as well."

He sighs, wearily. "Hermione... apart from work and Quidditch I've hardly left your bloody house in over a month. I couldn't have spent any more time with you if we were _glued_ together."

"Yes, but... I know that, but... That's not the_ point! _I wanted to spend time with you, and from the moment _she _arrived, you hardly looked in my direction for the rest of the afternoon!"

"That's not true -"

"Yes, it _is_, Ron! You and Anna with your little in-jokes and teasing… I might as well have not _been_ there, for all the attention you paid me!"

I am aware that I sound like a sulky child whose feelings have been hurt, but I cannot help myself. I fold my arms angrily across my chest.

"You made it quite obvious that you didn't want me there, Ron, and I could only think of one reason why that might be."

"_Fine!"_ he snaps. "Yes, okay, you're right. But not for the reason you think. If you'd bothered to make an effort with Anna, I wouldn't have minded that you wanted to come too. But no, you just sat there with a face like a wet weekend and hardly said a word all bloody afternoon, except to make snide little remarks about how I'm afraid of spiders or how shit the team is! Every time I tried to talk to you, you bit my head off, you could hardly be bothered to be polite to my friend, and when you _did_ talk to her, you just went on for ages about gorgeous _Vicky_ and his big, strong arms! You tell me, Hermione, is it any _wonder_ I didn't want you to come after that?"

I stare at him, tears pricking the back of my eyes. Oh, God, that's _exactly_ what I did.

"You just didn't want to look bad in front of her," I mutter, guiltily.

"It's not _about_ her... Oh, God, you really don't get it, do you? This is _my_ thing, these are _my_ friends, this is the one thing I've got that is just mine, Hermione. Not yours, not Harry's, not any other sodding member of my family's. _Mine!" _

He jumps to his feet and starts pacing angrily back and forth in front of the bench.

"Quidditch keeps me_ sane_, Hermione! For a couple of hours a week I don't have to think about you, or the fact that I live with my sister, or what a total fucking mess I've made of my life, I can just whack the shit out of a ball with a bloody great bat for a couple of hours and that makes me feel a million times better! But you couldn't even let me have that, could you? No, you had to go and ruin it, just like you ruined everything else!"

I stare at him, aghast. "_I've_ ruined it? How?"

"Because every single person in my life, Hermione, knows_ you_ too. All my friends, my family, my workmates... I don't suppose that even crossed your mind, did it? When you walked out on me? This was the one place I could go where I don't have to talk about it if I don't want to, where people aren't tip-toeing around the subject all the bloody time, where I could just come and have a drink and a laugh and not have to think about _you_. I can just be Ron; I don't have to be Poor Ron Who Hermione Dumped. So thanks for that, now I suppose I'm gonna have to find a new set of friends who don't think of me as that pathetic loser who keeps getting dumped by the same fucking girl!"

"Nobody thinks -"

_"Shut up, I'm talking!"_

I am shocked into silence.

He takes a deep, calming breath. "And Anna… Anna is the only person I can be_ myself_ with. She doesn't keep reminding me about you when I just want to forget about it all. She doesn't treat me like I might chuck myself under a bus at any minute. If it wasn't for her and the other guys on the team -"

"She's not a_ guy_, Ron!"

"I know she's not, I'm just saying… I'm just trying to explain that she's been_ good_ for me, Hermione! She's got me out of the house, she gets me to try new things, she makes me laugh… she makes me feel_ normal_ again… Why the hell would I ruin that by trying to get_ off_ with her?"

I can only shrug helplessly. "I'm sorry."

"I_ know_ you're sorry!" he spits, "You're_ always_ fucking_ sorry!_"

_"Ron!"_ I protest, shocked.

"Oh…_ fuck off!"_

"I can't argue with you when you're like this, Ron."

"Oh, I don't know, you seem to be doing a pretty good job!"

"Fine," I say, and I can hear my voice shaking, "If that's what you want, that's what I'll do. But just in case that's_ not_ what you want, and you're just saying that because you're angry with me, I'm going to sit here on this bench for five minutes first, OK? Then if you still want me to - to fuck off - I will. You never have to see me again."

We stare at each other, him breathing hard, his whole face tense with anger, his hands clenched into fists by his sides.

"I'm going for a walk," he says abruptly, and without another word turns on his heel and strides away across the Heath.

---

* * *

---

I sit and wait for him to come back for five minutes, six minutes, seven… I am certain he will come back once he's calmed down - I_ know_ him, after all - but the doubts are starting to creep in. Nine minutes, ten, eleven…

---

Finally, after twelve of the longest minutes of my life, I see a familiar flash of red hair approaching through the late evening gloom. He is walking slowly,_ painfully_ slowly, back to me, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his head bent, eyes firmly fixed on the ground. He sits down beside me on the bench, and for almost a full minute neither of us speaks.

---

"I'm sorry I shouted at you," he mumbles, finally.

"That's quite alright," I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. "I'm sorry I made you that angry."

There is a long silence. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn't say anything.

"Do you know how much it hurts to hear you say that_ Anna_ is the only person you can be yourself with?"

"I meant these last six months," he mumbles, "Before me and you got back together. That's all I meant."

"Do you talk to her about_ us_?"

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Not really."

I am unconvinced, and I think he knows it.

"I just… sometimes I just need someone else to talk to that isn't_ you_, Hermione. You can understand that, can't you? Me and Harry… we don't really talk anymore. Not about_ you_, anyway. Not about much of anything, to be honest."

"Well..." I say, hesitantly, "Could you at least _try_ and talk to me about things? Don't you think maybe that's been our problem these last few weeks? Neither of us has been straight with one another; we've just been bottling up our feelings. And that's not us. That's _never_ been us."

Ron just shrugs.

"Look," I sigh, "I know you said that sometimes honesty isn't the best policy, and I do understand what you mean, but I really think that us being completely truthful with each other is the only way this is going to work. I'm not going to keep anything back from you, not my worst fears, my doubts,_ anything_."

I take a deep breath. "My name's Hermione and I'm a jealous girlfriend."

He laughs out loud, then realises I'm not joking, stops himself abruptly and averts his eyes from my gaze. Finally he just says, quietly, "Okay".

"And I know you said you didn't want to hear any more apologies, either, so this is the last time I'm going to say it, but I_ am_ sorry, Ron. I don't have any excuse for my behaviour, except that from the second you came back I realised how much I needed you, and how empty my life had been without you. The thought that I might lose you again... I know it was irrational, but it didn't feel like it at the time. You have to understand; I didn't know what you felt about things because you didn't want to talk about anything."

"I'm not saying it's your fault," I add, hastily, when he shows every sign of objecting, "I suppose I just let my imagination run riot. When I met Anna... your relationship with her just seemed so free and easy compared to what we were going through. You had all these little in-jokes and references to people and places I didn't know. I was jealous, I admit it. You got on so well, you made me feel like the outsider. And I don't care whether you believe me or not, but she_ does_ like you. Women can just tell. It's how I knew Lavender liked you before you did. It's why I was so angry with you. I was sure you must know. It just seemed so obvious. It was fear, too. I was terrified you would choose her over me and I'd be left alone again."

"It was never a case of_ choosing_, Hermione. She's not… she's just my friend, that's all. I've never thought of her as anything else."

"But you can see, can't you, why I felt like I did? I always thought I was the only one you wanted and now there's Luna and Linda and Lavender and Anna… it's not just_ me_ anymore..."

He stares at me for a few seconds, then he runs a hand through his hair wearily and sighs. "How many times do I have to tell you it's_ always_ been you? It's been you since I was fourteen years old, Hermione. It's been you for so long I can't even remember when it_ wasn't_ you. And besides, I'm twenty-six. I've had_ one_ proper girlfriend. I've -_ you know_ - with_ two_ women. I'm not exactly going for some kind of record here, you know. And in case you haven't noticed, you're up to_ four_ yourself."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"_Well_..." - he counts on his fingers - "Vicky, McLaggen -"

"That was one drunken kiss at a party!"

"Linda was one drunken kiss in a pub."

I start to protest, but then have to concede the point.

Ron resumes counting. "Vicky, McLaggen,_ me_..." He glances up at me pointedly._ "Jeff..."_

"Jeff?" I am slightly dazed. "I thought you didn't care about Jeff?"

"Of course I care about him! What, are you nuts?"

"You never mentioned anything!"

"What was I gonna say?_ 'Um, Hermione, you know that bloke you didn't sleep with around the time I was shagging Luna...?'"_

He has a point. "Well, yes... okay..."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "I can't believe you thought I didn't care about him. After Krum and McLaggen!"

"That was a long time ago."

"So? I'm still_ me_."

I just stare at him blankly.

He throws up his hands in frustration. "Oh, my_ God!_ Why d'you think I came to pick you up from work that time?"

"What do you mean?"

"I wanted to see what the bastard _looked_ like! Christ, Hermione, for someone who's supposed to be smart, you can't half be thick sometimes..."

But a slow smile is spreading across my face. "You_ do_ care..."

He rubs his face wearily. "Of course I_ care_... I wish I didn't sometimes, but there you go."

Feeling giddily reckless with happiness and relief, I take his face in my hands and plant a big wet kiss in the centre of his forehead.

He looks bemused. "What was_ that_ for?"

"Being jealous of Jeff."

To his credit, he laughs. "You_ are_ nuts. I'll remind you of this next time."

"There won't be a next time."

"There better bloody not be."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, sheepishly, "I should have realised."

"Yeah, well..." He shrugs. "We should_ both_ have realised."

We catch each other's eye and start laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, of_ us._

---

Is that _it?_ I ask myself, relief flooding my body. Is the argument over? Is it too soon to ask him? 'C_ome home with me_.' Maybe it _is_ too soon, but that doesn't mean I want this evening to end. I don't want to let him go yet. I don't want to let him go at all.

---

If I hadn't left, if the last two years had never happened... we'd be walking home down Highgate Hill about now, back to our little flat. Ron would put the kettle on and run himself a bath, and I'd change into my pyjama trousers and slippers, just like we always used to. We'd spend the evening doing all those boring Sunday night things, like ironing our work clothes (me) and making our sandwiches for the next day (him), and be tucked up in bed - asleep - by half past ten. Boring? Maybe so, but if I had a Time-Turner I know where I'd rather be right now, what I'd rather be doing.

"Shall we go and look at our old flat?" I ask, hopefully, "Since we're in the area. It might be nice to see it again."

"Um…" He frowns, and I remember too late that his memories of the flat are not such happy ones.

"We don't have to."

"No," he says, in a tone that suggests it's just about the last thing in the world he wants to do, "No, if that's what you want. I don't mind."

---

* * *

---

Ron gets quieter and quieter the closer we get to the flat, and I wish I had not suggested it. Reminding him of things he might otherwise wish to forget was perhaps not the best idea in retrospect. And I had forgotten how dirty and noisy Archway is. The same group of drunks hanging around the tube station necking cans of cheap cider and trying to cadge spare change from passers-by. The same heady mix of traffic fumes and dirt and overflowing rubbish bins and unpleasant food smells. I brought someone who hates London to one of the busiest, noisiest, dirtiest parts of the city. It was nice on the Heath, quiet, peaceful. We should have stayed there.

---

Ron has stopped to examine a bright yellow police scene of crime sign outside the tube station. A stabbing.

"Did you see anything?" he reads aloud, "No, thank Christ, I was two hundred miles away."

We both stare at the sign, suddenly depressed, and then at each other.

"Let's not go and look at the flat," he pleads. "I don't want to see it. Let's just… go somewhere else."

I nod. "Okay," I say, relieved. I don't feel much like stirring up old - bad - memories either.

I watch all the people streaming in and out of the tube station and a long-forgotten question makes its way to the forefront of my mind.

"What were you doing on the tube?"

"The tube?" he repeats, confusedly. "I wasn't on the tube, what are you talking about?"

I flush. "Oh, yes, I know. I'm sorry. It was just… something you said a few weeks ago…"

He raises his eyebrows quizzically and I stumble on, wishing I had not spoken the thought out loud.

"You said... you said there was a time you... you burst into tears on the tube. No, wait!" – for I can see him tense straight away and the way his face clouds over and his jaw clenches - "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, I just... I wondered why you were on the tube, that's all. You never get the tube."

"Does it matter?"

"No, of course - I just wanted - it wasn't about that… it was just…"

I speed up, tripping over my words in my hurry to explain. "Last July, when I heard about the bombs going off in London… that's the only reason I asked."

I hear myself give a nervous laugh. "This stupid woman Claire came into my office that morning and told me that some bombs had gone off on the tube, and a lot of people had been killed. _Some_ bombs! And even though I knew you never used public transport, and there was no chance whatsoever of you having been caught up in it, my first thought was still of_ you_…"

"You can't have been_ that_ worried," he mutters, testily, "Or you'd have sent me an owl."

"I sent Harry one. Asking if everyone was alright, but it was you I was thinking of. I couldn't relax until I heard from him."

He is silent, apparently mollified by my explanation.

"_Were _you on the tube that day?"

He shakes his head. "It happened in the morning rush hour, didn't it? I had an early meeting over at the Tornados ground, so I didn't know anything about it 'til I got back to the office that afternoon, and someone told me to just go home again. They closed the Ministry."

"They_ closed_ it? _Why?" _

He shrugs. "I suppose a lot of people have Muggle relatives, so they needed to make sure they were okay. There are no phones in the Ministry either, of course, so anyone who needed to contact a Muggle friend or relative had to leave the building to do it. They shut down the whole London transport network, and I think they must have closed the schools as well, because quite a lot of people had to leave to pick up their kids and take them home. A few of us who didn't have people we were worried about stayed on for a while, but then we thought we might as well just go home too."

He shakes his head in a kind of horrified awe. "It was really weird being out on the street. All the shops, all the offices, everything was shut. No cars, no buses, no taxis, no traffic at all. No planes flying overhead, even. I've never seen London so quiet. Everyone was just walking, trying to get home. I walked home myself, actually."

"Why?"

A shrug. "I don't know, I suppose I just wanted to be part of it like everyone else. Hear what people were saying, find out what had happened. And it was the middle of the afternoon so it wasn't like I had anywhere to be."

We are silent for several minutes after that, the mood now a sombre one, and then I remember how we came to be talking about this in the first place.

"So what_ were_ you doing on the tube?"

He gives an unhappy shrug. "I dunno. It was just a way of killing time, that's all. I didn't want to go home, but I didn't want to be in the pub either, so I used to just get on the Circle Line and go round and round… for hours, sometimes."

He falls silent for a few moments, lost in the memory, then seems to remember I am there, and forces himself back to the present.

"I only did it for a few weeks," he says, defensively. "It's not a great place to be when you're… not feeling your best. Too many people, bad air, bad light... Sometimes I'd read the newspapers people had left on the seats, sometimes I'd just sit there and try not to think about what a total mess my life was. Hence, the bursting into tears. People don't want to see that on the tube. They move away from you. I don't blame them, I'd probably be the same myself. They just want to shut out all the madness and get home as soon as possible. There are some seriously fucked up people on public transport. I saw a lot of arguments. Some actual fights, even. Saw a really drunk bloke in a suit nearly fall under a train. And a lot of dirt, and vomit, and mad people shouting. If I wasn't depressed at the start of those three weeks, I sure as hell was afterwards."

He sighs, heavily. "Kind of reminded me why I hate London, in fact."

We both stare at the police scene of crime sign.

"Do you think it was them?" he asks, randomly.

I am confused. "Who?"

He gestures towards the sign. "Those kids that mugged me. The stabbing."

"I don't know," I say, helplessly, "It's not very likely. It was six years ago, after all."

"Yeah," he says, distractedly. "I wonder about that sometimes."

A jolt goes through me. He still _thinks_ about it? "You… you do?"

"Yeah. You know, all the other people they probably mugged after me. They were fourteen or fifteen then, they'd be about twenty now… chances are they'd have moved on from sticking up strangers with a kitchen knife."

I don't know what to say. He's probably right, but I don't want to admit it.

"I should have stopped them," he says, quietly.

"No, you shouldn't!"

"Yeah, I should. If I could have just got to my wand in time I could have scared them off. Maybe even stopped them doing it again."

"Ron, you had a twelve inch kitchen knife against your stomach, don't be _ridiculous! _There was nothing you could have done that wouldn't have been stupidly dangerous! The second you went for your wand, they'd have - they'd -"

But I can't finish the sentence. The thought of what might have happened is too horrifying to contemplate. The bright yellow police scene of crime sign in front of us is a stark enough reminder.

"Ron," I say, urgently, "I don't want to move back here. I think we should get a flat together, somewhere new. Maybe in the country. Somewhere with no memories for either of us. I think it's what we need. A fresh start."

He stares at me, his expression unreadable. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I think it's the right thing to do."

He is silent for a few seconds, apparently thinking, and then he says, "Would you move to Devon?"

"Yes, I would. I'd go anywhere with you."

"Could we get a dog?"

I laugh out loud, high on possibility. "We can get_ two_, if you want!"

He frowns, for some reason, and looks away from me again, burying his face in his hands and screaming quietly into them. A few muttered swearwords escape his lips. I watch him, not understanding.

"Ron...?" I ask, fearfully.

He takes his hands away and turns to face me, still not quite able to meet my eyes.

"Look... I know I should have said this earlier, but... I've been thinking about this too. I've been thinking about it a_ lot_, in fact. And it's not that I don't want to, you know,_ eventually_, but... I just think it's too soon. I think -"

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to meet my gaze.

"I think we need to work this out, ah,_ separately_..."

And just like that, my little dream breaks clear in two.

---

* * *

_A/N: Alright, yes, I AM evil, I admit it! Sorry! But I had to split this chapter somewhere, and as I've said before, I do love a good cliffhanger. _

_By the way, that Ned Astley song is annoyingly catchy. I've not been able to get it out of my head for days, and have had to be very careful not to accidentally sing the words out loud. (Well, it would be hard to explain that one away at work!) _

_OK, so now there really IS only one more chapter to go... (Yes, really. I wrote the last paragraph months ago, so I know __**exactly**__ how this is going to end) I'd love to know your ideas on what's going to happen. You'll be wrong, of course, but it would be fun to hear them… _

_Review, review, review! _

_PB x_

* * *


	14. Chapter 14: Last Match of the Season Pt2

_**

* * *

**_

**Author's Note:**

--

_Well, it seems my mammoth chapters have finally defeated Ffnet! Repeated efforts to upload it over the last week have failed, and 4 emails to "Support" have elicited the impressive total of zero replies. (By the way, they're lying when they say the document upload limit is 9 Mg. This is a mere 155 Kb and it still won't upload. Gits.)_

_--_

_Anyway, I can't wait any longer, and I'm sure you can't either, so the way I see it, I have two options. I can either a) massively edit it down by about 10,000 words in order to publish it as one chapter, or b) split it in half (yes, again). I've gone for the latter. _

_--_

_Before you all start throwing things at me, I know you don't want to have to wait another week to read what will now be Chapter 15, and I did mean for this to all be read in one go, so I'm publishing both "last chapters" today. In return, though, I would be grateful if you could do me the favour of reviewing both chapters separately, just as you would if I had posted them a week or a month apart. _

_PB_

_--_

_p.s: You'll get a lot more out of this if you re-read Chapter 13 aka "The Last Match Of The Season (Part One)" first__. Since it's effectively now a trilogy! _

_--_

* * *

_**Previously on "Faultlines"...**_

**_--_**

"Look... I know I should have said this earlier, but... I've been thinking about this too. I've been thinking about it a_ lot_, in fact. And it's not that I don't want to, you know,_ eventually_, but... I just think it's too soon. I think -"

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to meet my gaze.

"I think we need to work this out, ah,_ separately_..."

And just like that, my little dream breaks clear in two.

--

* * *

--

**Chapter Fourteen: The Last Match Of The Season (Part Two)**

--

"_You're not coming back?"_

He shakes his head. "I think it's the only way this is going to work."

"How can it work if we're not together?" I ask, hotly.

"How can it work if we _are?"_ he flashes back. "It hasn't so far, has it?"

"Is this still about Anna?" I demand. "I thought I'd explained all that."

"Partly. Well... no, not really. It's about everything."

Panic is filling my brain. "So, you want to split up, is that it?"

_"No," _he says, patiently.

"So let me get this straight… you _don't_ want to split up, but you don't want to get back together, either?"

An apologetic shrug is all he can offer.

"That's…" I am at a loss for words. "So what's the plan?" I demand, anger rising within me now, "You're just going to get on with your life, and I'm supposed to wait around for you to decide whether you want to come back or not?"

The second the words are out of my mouth I realise this is exactly what he accused _me_ of doing.

"There's no _plan_, Hermione."

"You're a chess player, Ron. You think about everything four or five moves ahead."

"Except this," he says, with a rueful smile, "Maybe if I _had_ thought about it, instead of jumping in feet first…"

"Well, you must know what you _want_ to happen!"

He shrugs. "What I _want_ to happen doesn't matter."

"Of course it mat-"

"I'm not moving back in with you, Hermione. Not now, anyway. Maybe in six months, if -"

"Six _months!_ You think it'll take that long?"

"Maybe longer. I don't know; it takes as long as it takes. I can't give you an exact date when I'm suddenly going to feel better about this, just like you can't tell me when you're going to stop hating Anna for being there for me when you weren't."

A jolt goes through me. He's right.

He sees the look of shock on my face and his expression softens. "Look, it's as much my fault as yours. We should have taken things slowly, instead of rushing to move back in together. Given each other a bit of time to get used to the idea."

I stare down at my hands for several seconds. "We wanted it too much," I say, simply.

He smiles, sadly. "We did."

"I still want it, Ron."

"I know, and I do too, it's just…"

"Not that easy?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Well, should we talk about it?"

_My solution to everything_.

He sighs, wearily. "Probably."

_"Probably?"_

"Well, what do you want me to say, Hermione? I don't know any more than you do, all I know is that I don't think us moving back in together is the solution. If you've got any better suggestions, I'd love to hear them."

"I thought I already _had_. I was going to move to Devon for you, or had you forgotten?"

"I know, and I appreciate it -"

"Oh, thanks!" I say, sarcastically.

He ignores me. "And maybe one day, who knows, it might even happen. But not now. I just think it's too soon, that's all. I think we should take it slowly. I dunno, maybe just see each other a couple of times a week or something."

_"A couple of times a week!"_

"Well, no, alright - three or four times a week, then." He gets a sudden flash of inspiration. "You know, like dating..."

_"Dating?"_ I shriek, appalled.

"I don't _know_, Hermione! I'm making this up as I go along!"

"Clearly!"

He doesn't say anything.

"And this is what you want, is it?" I ask, my voice sounding high and unnatural.

"No, it's not what I_ want_," he says, angrily. "I want to be with you_ all the time_, Hermione. I just… I can't see that happening if we carry on the way we have been. It's my fault, I should never have moved back in with you so soon. I should have gone home on that Sunday night, thought it through_ properly_."

He manages a small, tight smile. "But you know me, thinking things through has never been my strong point."

_"Ha!" _I say, unable to think of a proper retort.

We both suddenly realise we are having this argument outside a busy tube station and people can hear everything we are saying. My anger dissipates immediately and I lower my voice and grab his arm, pulling him close to me, pleading now.

"I know it hasn't been the best start, Ron, but I really think the only way we have a chance is if you move back in. Apart from the last two years, we've spent nearly every day of our lives together since we were eleven. Being together is _normal_ for us. _Not_ being together… I don't think I can be apart from you anymore, Ron. I missed you so much this week. _So _much. You have no idea."

He raises an eyebrow. "I have no idea?"

"Well, no, of course you - that's not what I meant, I -"

"You think this is easy for me?"

"I just don't think seeing you a couple of times a week is going to be enough. I want to see you every day. I want to see you there beside me when I wake up."

"So do I, that's why I'm _doing_ this. I think this is the only way that's going to happen."

I take a step back from him, folding my arms angrily across my chest. "Well, I disagree!"

We stare at each other for several long seconds, then Ron turns away, shaking his head. "I _knew_ you wouldn't take this well."

"Well, what did you expect?" I spit, "Cartwheels?"

We stand there awkwardly for several minutes, and my anger gradually ebbs away.

"It's not going to be enough for me, Ron. A couple of times a week... I don't think I can do it. After all these years, after everything we've been through together, how can you possibly expect me to go back to just _dating?_"

He gives a helpless shrug. "It's the only chance we've got."

"There must be another option."

"Well, _yeah_... there _is.._."

He continues to look at me, pointedly. He doesn't even need to say it. _We could split up. _

"So this is basically an ultimatum, is it? I have to do what you want or that's it, all over?"

Another shrug.

"You'd already made your decision before you even came today, hadn't you?" I say, heavily. "Is there any point in me even _trying_ to change your mind?"

Tears of frustration fill my eyes and I haveto turn away from him to wipe them with my sleeve.

"Hey," he says gently, touching my arm, "I'm sorry. If I thought there was another way…"

"Why did you wait _nine hours _to tell me this? Why did you make me think there was still a chance?"

"I'm sorry," he says again, looking devastated now. "I don't know, I suppose I thought this might be the last day I'd ever get to spend with you, and I didn't want to spoil it."

"_Spoil_ it!?" I spit, not quite able to manage anger anymore.

"Well, why didn't _you _say anything?"

I shrug unhappily. "Same reason," I mumble.

We look at each other in utter misery.

"Hermione," he says, in a cracked voice, "You haven't given me an answer."

My voice is breaking too. "I can't."

"You can't give me an answer, or you can't…?" He tails off, unable to bring himself to complete the sentence, face that possibility.

I just shake my head.

We both stand there in silence for what seems like aeons. Finally Ron seems to come to himself and realise where we are, still standing outside the tube station, stuck in limbo.

"Listen," he says, bracingly, "Shall we get out of here? It's getting on for ten o'clock; we could go and have a quick drink somewhere before the pubs shut."

I just shrug. Whatever. Who cares? What's the point?

"How about The Three Broomsticks?" he goes on, still with that tone of forced cheer. "You know, for old time's sake? We could pretend we've sneaked out of school. See if they'll serve us." He gives a hollow laugh.

I adopt the same tone of flirty banter, more out of habit than enthusiasm. "I think they'll serve_ you_. How many six foot three schoolboys are there?"

"I think there are quite a few now, actually. They seem to get taller all the time. Haven't you noticed?"

"I don't go around ogling schoolboys, thank you very much."

"That's not what I heard."

We're just going through the motions now, as though we're reading from a script.

"So what do you reckon then?" he asks, an edge of desperation in his voice, "Fancy a pint?"

What choice do I have? It's either that, or go home alone to my empty bed, possibly for the rest of my life. At least if we're still together, I might have a _chance_ of changing his mind. He seemed really torn when I offered to move to Devon. I get the feeling that with just a little bit of gentle persuasion on my part, _maybe..._

I shrug. "Alright."

What have I got to lose, after all?

_Everything._

--

* * *

--

It's been over three years since I was in Hogsmeade village, but it hasn't changed much. The Hogsmeade branch of Ron's brothers' joke shop is still there, although they have expanded into the shop next door now, too. The flat above where the twins used to sleep sometimes when the shop was busy has been converted into offices for a robe-making business. Madame Puddifoot's is now the Copper Kettle Tea Room, but a quick glance through the window reveals it to be decorated in just the same over-flouncy manner as ever, only with added copper kettles hanging from the beams.

--

I remember the first (and only) time we came in here. Ron had just started his first job, and brought me here for dinner to celebrate. We were both so happy and optimistic. The war was finally – unbelievably - over, and life seemed full of possibility. Only a week or so earlier we had slept together for the first time, and only a few weeks afterwards we moved into our first flat. There were a lot of firsts that Autumn. It seems like a very long time ago now.

--

The decor in The Three Broomsticks is the same as it always was too, if a little shabbier. It is late on a Sunday night and there are not many other customers in the pub. The barman sizes up our Muggle clothes with narrowed, suspicious eyes. It feels strange to be back here in the wizarding world after all this time, and I feel oddly out of place. Ron and I find an empty corner and sit there in mute misery, hardly even touching our drinks. We both seem shell-shocked. Finally, after a deathly twenty minutes of painful silence, Ron clears his throat as if to speak, and I look up expectantly.

--

"Did you see the look the barman gave us when we came in? Honestly, if looks could kill!"

"Yes," I say. There doesn't seem to be much else I _can_ say.

Silence.

He tries again. "I don't suppose he gets many people dressed in Muggle clothes in here."

"No, I suppose not."

More silence.

I don't know what we hope to achieve by this. Maybe he hopes that if he just keeps me talking, I'll give in. Maybe I hope I can change his mind. Maybe we're both deluding ourselves.

I push my glass away from me. "I don't even want this. I don't know why I ordered it."

He glances up and our eyes meet. "Me neither."

"Well, why are we _here_, then?" I snap, firing up.

He just looks at me and barely shrugs. We're here because we have no other choice, and we both know it. We sink back into tense silence, Ron starts gnawing at his fingernails, and I glance desperately around the pub for something else to talk about. It seems to be my turn.

"Do you remember the first time we came in here?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Was it Hallowe'en of third year?" I wonder aloud, neither expecting an answer nor receiving one. "Yes, I think it was. Funny really, that was probably the first time we got to spend the whole day alone together. I remember thinking beforehand that it would be a bit weird being here with just you and not Harry as well."

His eyebrows shoot up_. "Weird?"_

I shrug. "I think I was a bit embarrassed in case people thought it was a date or something."

"What, and you didn't want to be seen with me?"

"No, of course not. It was more that, well, you were a boy, and I had just turned fourteen, and I was starting to be aware of that stuff, I suppose. All the older girls seemed to treat Hogsmeade visits as basically a giant dating opportunity, Lavender and Parvati had started talking about the boys they liked… I realised that it wasn't normal to have two boys as best friends. They couldn't believe I didn't fancy either of you."

"Couldn't believe you didn't fancy _Harry_, you mean," he scoffs. "I'm not sure any girls even knew my _name_ in third year."

"Well, I think Lavender rather made up for that little oversight later, don't you?" I retort, regretting my tone before I've even finished the sentence. This conversation doesn't seem to be going well for either of us.

I shake my head. "I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it. I - I'm not having a very good day."

Ron looks at first startled, and then rather guilty. He slumps back in his chair and sighs.

"Yeah, me too. I suppose we're both a little bit stressed out."

"Just a little," I agree, and we exchange weak smiles.

Feeling slightly encouraged, I decide to try again.

"This was where we decided to move in together, do you remember?"

"That's right!" he exclaims, enthusiastically, seizing on this conversational lifebelt with both hands. "I'd just started my new job, and we went for dinner at Madame Puddifoot's to celebrate."

"We were going to go and see the castle, but it was -"

"Too cold!" we chorus together, then laugh.

"So we came in here for a drink instead..."

"Nice warm log fire..."

"We didn't want to leave..."

"It was raining cats and dogs outside…"

"You said maybe we could get a room for the night..."

"Well, you can't blame a bloke for trying!"

He chuckles, then our eyes drift automatically to the ceiling above our heads, and back down to meet in a gaze heavy with mutual longing.

Neither of us voices the thought aloud, Ron just buries his head in his pint and I pretend to be interested in the contents of my bag. There is a charged silence.

"Probably got bedbugs anyway," mutters Ron.

"Probably. Or Nargles."

He gives a short laugh. "Yeah. Them too."

"Do they live in houses?"

"No idea, I thought they were imaginary. You'd have to ask Lu-" He stops dead mid-word and his eyes widen in horror. "-na."

I decide not to make an issue of it. "Yes, you would."

There is a short, awkward silence.

"Shall we go and have a look at the castle now?" I ask, more brightly than I feel. "I mean, since we're _here_…"

--

* * *

--

The castle is in shadows, but we can see the Astronomy tower, now rebuilt after its destruction in the war, and the glint of the moon on the Herbology greenhouses. There are lights on in a few windows, presumably from the teachers' rooms. We peer through the huge wrought iron gates and immediately fall silent, both lost in memory.

"It's funny to think Hagrid's just over there asleep," Ron muses.

"And Neville. It must be nearly the end of his first year teaching."

"Oh, yeah! I'd forgotten about that. I wonder how he's doing. Have you seen him lately?"

I shake my head. "I haven't seen _anyone_ lately."

"I haven't seen him for ages either. We had a bit of a send-off for him last August, just before he was due to leave. Me and Harry, Dean and Seamus. Seamus wanted to take him to a strip club, but we talked him out of it. Can you imagine poor Neville at a strip club? He'd have a heart attack on the spot. Anyway, what if someone saw him and reported it to the board of governors? He's a responsible member of the community now; he can't go around getting drunk and going to strip clubs." He chuckles. "Mind you, it wouldn't do his credibility with the kids any harm."

"I'm sure he does just fine already."

Ron raises a sceptical eyebrow.

"Come on, he's twenty-five, he must be the youngest teacher this school's had in years. I bet half the girls at Hogwarts have a huge crush on him."

He shakes his head. "I did _not_ want to know that."

"Is he still going out with Hannah?"

"I think so. Nobody's told me otherwise. Anyway, they've been together for ever, those two. They might as well just get married and be done with it. Put us all out of our misery!"

He starts to laugh, then seems to realise the implications of his statement, and swiftly changes the subject.

"Do you remember when Hagrid came to pick us up off the train when we first arrived? It seems like a million years ago, doesn't it?"

"It does," I agree.

"God, I was _terrified_. I was sure I'd be put in Slytherin or Hufflepuff, and the twins would never speak to me again."

I laugh. "Do you ever wish you were back there?"

"What, at school?"

"Yes. I think it would be wonderful, to be able to go back and do things differently. You know, with the benefit of hindsight. Don't you think so?"

"_No!" _he laughs, "I wouldn't go back there if you paid me. Come on, Hermione, I hated school, you know that."

"You didn't _hate_ it. You just..."

"Hated it."

"I'm sure that's not tr-"

"Well, okay." He starts counting on his fingers. "One: homework. Two: Snape. Three: having to wear school uniform, or, worse, my brothers' old hand-me-downs. Four: exams. Five: Malfoy. Six: Lavender. Seven: no money. Eight: no sex. Nine -"

I hold my hands up, laughing. "Alright, alright, I get the point! Anyway," I add, mischievously, "How do you _know _there'd be no sex?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "You're saying there _might_ be?"

"Well, that would be rather up to you."

"What do you mean, up to me?"

"Well, you'd have to not wait until two months before the end of term to make your move, for a start."

"So, what, if I'd asked you out sooner...?"

"Maybe," I say, teasingly. "I don't think I ever told you about my little night-time fantasy, did I?"

His eyes grow wide as saucers. "Your -?"

"Do you remember that last summer between fifth and sixth year? When I was staying at your house?"

"'Course I do."

"Well... do you remember that night we bumped into each other on the landing?"

He grins. "What, and you were in your knickers and a little grey vest top? Nope, can't say that I do."

I glare at him and he laughs.

"What?" he protests, innocently.

"_I _remember that you were so mortified by the whole experience you couldn't get away fast enough," I remind him.

Ron hangs his head in pretend shame.

"Anyway," I continue, growing serious now, "Afterwards, I went back to bed, and all I could think about was what would happen if I just crept up the stairs to your room, and got into bed with you. What you would do."

"Oh, yeah!" he exclaims, excitedly, "I thought about that, too! Wow, that's really funny, we both –"

I cut him off. "No, but that wasn't it. That wasn't my fantasy. It was – well, about a week later we went back to school, and of course, you weren't in your room on your own anymore, you were in a dorm with four other boys, and somehow, that made it more exciting, more dangerous..."

His eyes widen._ "Dangerous?"_ he whispers.

I take a deep breath. "I used to imagine myself getting out of my bed in the middle of the night... um… _naked_… and I'd tiptoe down the stairs, across the common room, and up the stairs to the boys' dorms. And of course everyone would be asleep, and I'd put a hand over your mouth, so you wouldn't shout out and wake everyone up."

He has gone very quiet and still now, and I realise I am almost whispering myself.

"And I'd tell you it was me, and... I wouldn't need to say anything else, you'd just _know_. Why I was there. We'd _both_ just _know_. And I'd climb into bed beside you, and take your hand to show you that I wasn't wearing anything, and we'd… make love. In the darkness, in utter silence."

Ron is staring off at the castle, and is refusing to look at me, perhaps afraid of seeing his own desire reflected back at him. Perhaps he knows that if he sees that same desire in my eyes, he won't be able to resist, and then he'd have _lost_. The Three Broomsticks may have shut now, but we could Apparate back to my bedroom in Yorkshire in three seconds flat, if he only said the word.

"What about the others?" he croaks.

"Others?"

"Harry and Neville and Seamus and Dean. What if they'd woken up?"

I shrug. "I suppose I just knew that they wouldn't. It was like a dream – well, it _was_ a dream – but because it was dark, and we didn't speak, the whole thing felt very dreamlike. Of course, the next morning, when we saw each other at breakfast, neither of us were quite sure whether it _had_ been just a dream. A very vivid, wonderful, _incredibly detailed_ dream..."

He stares at me in obvious awe. "Why did you never tell me this before?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought about it in a long time. Being here again, in the dark, with you... I suppose it just reminded me."

"It's a shame they closed up all the tunnels, otherwise we could have made your little fantasy come true."

I smile. "It wouldn't work now. The whole point was that we hadn't said or done anything yet. The thrill of acting on suppressed longing, I suppose."

He sighs. "Christ, I wish you _had_ acted on it. I'd have loved it."

"You'd have had a heart attack on the spot, Ron."

He laughs. "Probably. But I reckon I'd have recovered pretty quickly. Come on, a naked girl gets into my bed in the middle of the night? Who turns down that opportunity?"

"I think _you_ might have done, actually. You'd have freaked out. Remember you hadn't even kissed anybody yet."

"Don't remind me!" He shakes his head. "Yeah, maybe you're right. Either that or I'd have thought you were Malfoy playing some kind of sick joke with the Polyjuice Potion..."

He screws up his face in an expression of disgust. "I really wish I hadn't said that." He shudders. "Now I've got the image of a naked Malfoy in my head."

"Better than having a naked Malfoy in your _bed_..." I joke, and we both laugh and then groan at the horrific thought.

"So what about you?" I ask him, when we have stopped laughing.

"What about me?" he says, evasively.

"Well, you must have had fantasies about me, too."

He raises his eyebrows. "Hermione, I was sixteen, ninety per cent of my waking _thoughts_ were about you. And quite a lot of my sleeping ones, too."

I laugh. "Tell me then."

"I can't tell you that!"

"Why not? It can't be anything we haven't done already."

He grins. "No, I wasn't that sophisticated. It was all fairly basic stuff like you pulling me into a cupboard when we were on prefect rounds, that kind of thing."

"Oh, really? And what did we get up to in this cupboard?"

He flushes. "You_ know_ what. Like you said, I'd not even kissed anyone when I was sixteen, so my imagination was pretty limited. I mean, I'd imagine us doing it, or you doing things to me, but there weren't really any_ details_. Plus I, er, hadn't quite worked out that the height difference meant we wouldn't actually be able to do it standing up. Sounds stupid, I know."

It's my turn to blush. "No, I didn't think about that until we, er, tried to, either."

He starts laughing. "Do you remember that time we tried to do it in the bath? God, I practically crippled myself!"

"Yes, well, there's a reason beds are so popular."

"Yeah, you don't have to worry about being kneecapped..."

"Or drowning."

He laughs out loud. "It was_ fun_ pain, though!"

"Oh, well, that's the best _kind _of pain!"

We grin at each other, and I wonder if I should seize the moment and suggest that we go back to mine, or if it would kill the mood stone dead in an instant.

Ron seems to have pretty much the same idea, for he gives the huge wrought iron gates a tentative shake, and finds a toehold for his foot.

"I reckon I could climb this."

"I wouldn't if I were you."

He hauls himself up off the ground one-handed and immediately starts looking around for another toehold.

"Why not?"

"Well, because there's probably some sort of anti-climb hex on it, and you'll end up covered in boils, or worse."

"Hmm," he says. "Good point." He starts laughing all of a sudden. "Hey, do you remember when Malfoy got Transfigured into a ferret? God, I thought I'd vomit up a lung, I was laughing so hard! If only someone had thought to take a photograph, I'd love to get that fra-"

--

It happens so fast he doesn't even have time to cry out. One second he's holding onto the gate and chuckling about Malfoy, and the next, there's a sickening _crack,_ and he's lying flat on his back on the stony ground with a look of stunned surprise on his face.

"_Ron!"_

He just blinks at me, as though he can't quite work out why the world has suddenly turned upside down. I rush to his side and help him sit up, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Are you okay? I _told_ you not to climb the gate! Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he mutters, pushing me away. "More embarrassed than anything."

"But I heard something break!"

He stares at me confusedly for a few moments, eyes filled with panic, then realisation dawns, and he buries his head in his hands and groans.

"Wand..." he says, shaking his head. "I can't believe –"

He reaches around behind him and pulls his wand – well, the top half of it, anyway – from his back pocket.

"Oh, that's brilliant. That's just _perfect."_

He climbs to his feet and tries flexing his shoulders and arms to check nothing else is broken.

"Are you _sure_ you're alright?" I ask, anxiously.

"I fell about three feet, Hermione."

"You didn't fall, you were _thrown_..."

"Doesn't change the _height_, though, does it?" he snaps, irritably.

"Well…" I am still in rather a state of shock. "You're lucky it wasn't something worse. Boils, or -"

"Yes_, thank _you," he says, crisply, dusting himself down. "Can we just agree never to mention this again, please? I feel like enough of an idiot already."

"Well, I did _tell_ you…"

He pulls the other half of his wand out of his back pocket and presses the two snapped halves together, as though it might magically repair itself.

"_Fuck..." _he breathes, shaking his head in disbelief. He looks up, and our eyes meet.

In that instant, I'm sure we both realise that Ron's options for the rest of the night have just been rather severely reduced. We're in the Highlands of Scotland, a very long way from home, and he can't Apparate without a wand. Or, more to the point; without a wand, he can't Apparate without _me_.

"Spectacular…" he mutters. I've only had it less than a year as well."

"Have you? What happened to your last one?"

He shrugs. "Not sure, actually. I might have left it in a pub." He makes a frustrated noise. "_Aaargh!! _Now I'm gonna have to go into Diagon Alley first thing tomorrow to get a new one. _And_ I'll be late for work. _And_ they know it was my last match today, so there's no_ way _they'll believe I wasn't up all night drinking and just overslept. Oh, this is just sodding _typical_…"

I feel as though I need to change the subject quickly before Ron's bad mood settles in for the night, or he decides he might as well just give up and go home.

"So, come on, then," I say, bracingly, "You were about to tell me about your teenage fantasies?"

He groans. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."

"Not a chance. Come on, I told you mine. It's only fair."

"Yeah, well, yours was more interesting. Mine were always… well, we were just_ doing_ stuff, that's all, there were never…" - he pulls a face - "_Plots_, or anything like that..."

I am disappointed. "Oh."

"Sorry. I guess I'm just not as imaginative as you are."

He gazes off at the castle, lost in thought. "Actually, there was_ one_ that I remember… It was pretty stupid, though, I'm sure you won't want to hear it."

"Tell me."

"You'll laugh."

"Probably, but I still want to hear it."

"Well, maybe I don't want to _tell_ you…" he teases, a half-smile playing about his lips.

"Oh, stop being a tease and just tell me!"

He watches my face for a few seconds, then he gives an exaggerated sigh and gives in.

"Alright, well, I think it was around the same time, actually. That summer you stayed at my house between fifth and sixth year. And because it was so hot, you spent the whole time wearing those little strappy vest tops and thin cotton skirts you could see the outline of your knickers through. When the sun was behind you I could see your legs through it, too, imagine what your thighs looked like… It was like some special kind of torture invented by God to make sure I didn't get any sleep for six weeks."

"Why didn't you get any sleep, Ron?" I ask, innocently.

He narrows his eyes at me. "Because. Are you going to keep asking stupid questions or are you going to let me finish?"

I bow my head in mock contrition. "Sorry."

"Okay, so in my, er… fantasy… I'd sneaked into Ginny's room to borrow something. I don't know what, I didn't bother making up the details. Anyway, suddenly I heard a noise outside the door and someone turning the handle to come in, and I thought, 'Shit, Ginny will kill me if she catches me in here', so I, uh…" He goes tomato red. "I hid in the wardrobe."

I can't help it, I laugh out loud at the utter predictability of him hiding in the wardrobe, of all places. I know exactly how this little fantasy is going to pan out even before he tells me.

"Cupboards_ and_ wardrobes? Do you have a thing for enclosed spaces you've never told me about?"

"You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"I said I'd_ try_. Really, the_ wardrobe?"_

"I told you I wasn't very imaginative. Are you going to interrupt every time or are you going to let me finish?"

"No, I'm sorry. Carry on. You were in the wardrobe…"

"Yeah, so I was in the wardrobe, and I suddenly realised it had those slatted doors -"

"Louvre doors. My mum and dad used to have some in their bedroom. They're a nightmare to dust."

He gives me a blank stare. "Yeah. So the thing was, you know, I could still see into the room. Not the whole room, though, just these horizontal strips of it -"

"Ron!" I exclaim, trying and failing not to laugh, "You censored your own fantasy!"

"Shut up, I didn't! It was just... it made it_ better,_ that's all. Like you were teasing me or something."

"Oh, so it_ was_ me, then?"

"Of course it was you! Who else would it be?"

"And what did I do?"

"Well, you came in, and you... you'd just had a shower - _shut up, you said you wouldn't laugh! _- so you were wrapped in this big white fluffy towel, and you had another one tied around your head. And you… you took that one off and started drying your hair. _God_. It was just… the whole time you were just wearing this _towel,_ and all I could think about was that underneath it you were all, you know, _naked_, and _damp. _I wanted to reach out and tug the towel off, but I was stuck in the bloody wardrobe so I couldn't. I couldn't do _anything_, couldn't move or make a sound, because you'd hear me and freak out and probably never speak to me again. Plus my entire family would think I was some sort of rabid pervert."

"So you weren't…_ doing_ anything in the wardrobe?" I ask, mischievously.

_"No!"_

"Sorry, go on."

He glares at me. "So anyway, you seemed to take absolutely _ages _to do your hair, and then you walked around the room deciding what to wear for another couple of minutes –"

I am intrigued that Ron's teenage imagination would delay his gratification in this way. But then I suppose delayed gratification was the story of our relationship. We met in September 1991 and finally became lovers in September 1999, eight years later. Tortoises have faster courtships.

"So did my towel come off eventually?"

"Yeah," he says hoarsely, "And then you started to dry yourself with it, and _oh, God!_ I couldn't help it, I think I gasped or yelped or something, and you heard me and pulled the towel back around you, and grabbed your wand and told whoever it was hiding in there to come out or you'd hex me through the door. So, um, I had to come out."

"And was I furious?"

A small smile plays about his lips. "Strangely, no. You just asked how long I'd been in there, and I said about ten minutes, and you asked if I'd, uh, _seen_ you, and I admitted that I had. Then you said… you said that since I'd seen _you_, it was only fair to return the favour. So you, uh, made me strip. _Don't laugh! _And you had your wand on me the whole time, and it was weird, 'cos neither of us said anything..."

He stops and gives me a pleading sort of look. "Come on, you don't _really_ want to hear this, do you? It's stupid."

"Oh, stop stalling and get on with it. I want to know how it ends."

He shakes his head. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Very much. Now get on with it."

He opens his mouth to continue, then frowns, rubbing his grazed elbow distractedly. "Where was I?"

"Naked in my bedroom?" I offer, not even attempting to keep a straight face.

He glares at me. "Actually, no. I was just down to my pants, which was embarrassing enough. I didn't think you actually wanted me to go through with it, I thought you were just getting your own back, making a point. So I refused to carry on, and you said… you said that if I did, you would too."

"Did I indeed? What a bad girl I was."

He smiles slightly. "So I ... I took them off, and you were just…ahem... _looking _at me, and then you smiled and said, 'Well, a deal's a deal', and you put your wand down on the bed and took off the towel."

"And?"

"And I just froze to the spot, I couldn't move or speak or breathe or anything, so you picked up my hand, and you spread my fingers over your... breast, and then, well you know, there was kissing and touching and stuff."

He is positively crimson now, gabbling in an attempt to get to the end of this as quickly as possible.

"And did we have sex?"

"Yeah," he mumbles.

"And how was it for you?"

"Awesome."

I laugh. "Do you realise that both of our little fantasies are essentially about the same thing? They're about finding a snatched five minutes to be alone whilst surrounded by other people. Your house, Grimmauld Place, school... We never really had any time to ourselves until we moved in together, did we? Apart from that wonderful weekend when my parents were away in Scotland, of course."

He grins, obviously relieved to have got to the end of his little tale without me hexing him. "It was worth waiting for, though."

"It was. But I wish we hadn't. Waited, I mean. I wish one of us had acted on the feelings we had for each other that summer. We could have had a whole year together before the war started."

"I wouldn't have had to go out with Lavender."

"Yes, well, that would have been a happy side-effect."

"But we didn't know we'd have to wait that long, did we? If you'd told me that first day we kissed that we wouldn't get to actually do it for another two and a half years, I'd have fallen to my knees and wept."

"Then it's probably a good thing we didn't know. At least there was _hope_. But it's one of my biggest regrets. All that time wasted. Next to leaving you, of course."

The atmosphere changes instantly the moment the words are out of my mouth. He isn't looking at me but I can see his jaw tighten and his whole body stiffen. The slightly flirty reminiscing has given way to an air of tension and, on my part at least, panic. It's past eleven o'clock on a Sunday night, we've run out of places to go, and we still haven't resolved anything. And we'll have parted on a sour note. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ron glancing at his watch, and dive in quickly before he can say anything.

"How about a quick cup of tea before we go home?"

He shakes his head. "Everywhere's shut now."

"Not in London. I'm sure there'll be an all-night café open somewhere."

He seems to take an age to answer. "Could do, I suppose."

"Where else will be open at half eleven on a Sunday night?"

"A nightclub?" he suggests.

I look at him sharply, hoping he doesn't mean what I think he means. If he wants me to come out with him and Anna, I'll do it, but by God, I won't be happy about it.

"You want to go to a _nightclub?" _

He shrugs. "Don't mind. Where else is open?"

"We could go back to mine. Or yours," I add, hastily.

Ron's expression remains carefully blank. "No, let's stay out. You're right, there's bound to be a cafe still open in London somewhere. If - if that's what you want, that is. I mean, it's up to you, isn't it?"

Of course! He _can't_ go and meet Anna, even if he wants to, because he hasn't got a _wand!_ I practically have to restrain myself from doing a little victory dance right there in front of him.

"Yes. Yes, that's definitely what I want," I smile, happily, and I automatically reach for his hand so we can Apparate together, but he yelps in pain and twists away from me.

I stare at him, horrified. "I hardly touched you!"

"I know. Sorry. It's not you. It's just a bit sore, that's all. I think I might have landed on it when I fell."

_"What?"_

An airy shrug. "I probably just sprained it or something."

_"WHAT?"_

"It's fine. Honestly!" He flashes me a thoroughly unconvincing smile. "So how about this cup of tea, then?"

An ill or injured Ron will veer between wild exaggeration when faced with a minor illness like a cold ("I'm_ dying!_") and a ridiculously stubborn machismo when it's clearly something much worse ("I'm fine! It's only a_ little_ bit of blood!"). One thing I learnt very early on with Ron is that when he says he's fine, he most definitely _isn't_.

"Oh, give it here!"

I take his hand in mine and carefully turn it over and bend each finger to see where it hurts. My every gentle touch elicits a sharp intake of breath and a wince of pain. I look up at him and sigh.

"Ron, you've clearly sprained it. Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's fine," he mutters. "It doesn't hurt if you don't touch it."

"Well, that makes perfect sense!" I retort, sarcastically.

"It's fine," he says faintly. "You can let go now." And looking up, I can see how pale he has gone.

"It's not _fine_, you idiot. You might even have broken it. Right, that's it; I'm taking you to St Mungo's!"

He snatches his hand back. "Hermione, I don't need to go to St Mungo's. Just do _Episkey_ on it or something."

"I don't want to risk it, not if you've broken it."

"I haven't broken it. Don't you think I'd know if I'd broken it? I did break my leg once, or have you forgotten?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten, but legs are different. You have to put all your weight on them, they hurt more. You might have just broken a small bone or something. Look, we can Apparate there now, it won't take long."

"We'll be there all night," he grumbles.

"What, and you'd rather spend the rest of your life with a broken hand, would you?"

"Fuck my hand!" he shouts suddenly, backing away from me, "This isn't supposed to be about my fucking hand!"

We stare at each other, him breathing heavily and clasping his hand to his chest.

"I _know_, Ron," I say softly, "We can talk about that later._ Now_ we just need to fix your hand. How can you possibly concentrate on arguing with me properly with a broken hand?"

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. "It's not broken," he says stubbornly.

"And you're a qualified Healer, are you?"

He shrugs. "I've got another hand."

"But you'll need both of them if you want to be Keeper."

He opens his mouth to argue, then gives in. "Fine!" he says, with an exaggerated sigh, "You win! I'll _go_ to the sodding hospital!"

"I_ win?_ You're getting your hand fixed, and_ I_ win?"

"Shut up, woman," he says, with a slight grin, "I'm going, aren't I? What more do you want?"

--

* * *

--

We Apparate to the hospital, and Ron signs in at reception, explains the situation, and is told to take a seat and wait.

"Told you," he says, smugly, "I bet we're here for _ages_."

"Oh, shh, it might not be very long. At least we can get a cup of tea, anyway."

"Great," he says, sarcastically, "Just the thing to top the night off. Hospital tea."

I bite my lip and say nothing.

We settle into a couple of apparently deliberately uncomfortable chairs in the waiting area. It is otherwise empty, except for a snoring wizard in green robes with no obvious injuries, and I pray that we don't have to wait too long.

Ron nudges me in the ribs. "What do you think's wrong with him?"

"I've no idea. Perhaps he's waiting for someone."

He sighs, loudly. "This is gonna be really embarrassing at work. 'What did you do to your hand, Ron? Did you injure it playing Quidditch? Did you get into a fight over a lady's honour and punch someone?' 'No, I fell three feet off a gate and landed a bit awkwardly. And I wasn't even drunk!' 'Yeah, _really_ cool, Ron…'"

I shake my head and sigh, pointedly.

"What?" he asks, annoyed.

"You're such a _boy_ sometimes..."

He doesn't seem to be able to come up with a witty answer to that one, so instead he just folds his arms across his chest and mutters something deliberately incomprehensible under his breath.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

"This is all your fault."

"_Excuse _me? How do you work that one out?"

"Well, all that stuff about you climbing into my bed naked in the middle of the night… I was distracted…"

"Did I _make_ you climb that gate?"

A shrug.

"Well, did I? Or did I tell you that you should get down because there was probably a hex on it?"

Lost for a snappy retort, he decides to occupy himself flexing his fingers and prodding at his injured hand to see where it hurts, like worrying at a scab.

"Leave it alone," I say, sharply. "You'll make it worse."

"Yes, Mum."

"Oh... _shut _up."

--

An hour goes past, punctuated every few minutes by Ron grumbling that this is a "waste of time", and that he "could have been in bed by now." Sadly, I am pretty sure he just means _asleep_. But I know that his hands hurts, and that he's frustrated because we're stuck in Casualty when this could be the last night we ever spend together, so I keep quiet and don't rise to the bait.

--

Besides, I'm tired and tetchy myself. It would be only too easy for irritable sniping to escalate into a full-blown row, and if that happens, we might not be able to come back from it.

--

Seeking distraction, I pick up a discarded magazine and start flicking through it. It's a teen magazine, so not really my kind of thing, but I do learn that the guitarist from popular wizarding band The Wrackspurts is "currently single, but on the lookout for that special girl" and that his favourite colour is "teal". Something to bear in mind, I think wryly, since I may well be single myself by the time this night is over. I glance at Ron, who, I suddenly realise, hasn't spoken in some time. His eyes are closed, his head is leant back against the wall, and he is cradling his injured hand in his lap.

--

"Ron?" I ask, tentatively. "Are you alright?"

No answer. I give his arm a gentle shake.

His head lolls sideways onto his shoulder, and I realise he's fallen asleep. I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, trying not to think about the fact that this might be the last time I ever get to watch him sleeping. That everything we say and do tonight might be for the last time. After a few minutes, he seems to sense me watching him and suddenly jerks awake, arms flailing wildly.

"Whazzthat?"

"Nothing. You fell asleep."

He blinks and sits up again, rubbing his face vigorously to wake himself up and stifling a yawn. He looks utterly exhausted.

"Sorry."

"S'alright. How's the hand?"

He looks at it in vague surprise, as though he's forgotten the entire reason we're here, flexes his fingers experimentally, and winces.

"I think it's starting to stiffen up."

I haul myself to my feet, feeling my knees creak as I do so. "Shall I see if I can find us a cup of tea?"

"Oh, God, yes, please!" he says, gratefully. "Anything to keep me awake. Not coffee, though!"

--

The tea tastes faintly soapy, as though someone hasn't washed the cups out properly, but it seems to revive our spirits instantly, and for that I am grateful. Of course, in Ron's case, that's probably more down to the three sugars he's stirred in to drown out the taste of soap than the tea itself, but I'm just glad he's not in quite such a bad mood anymore. He leans back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction, stretching his long legs out in front of him so they present a serious obstacle to anyone walking by.

"You know," he remarks, conversationally, "This is like a Grand Tour of my life. The school, the Heath, the pub… all we need to visit now is The Burrow and the Cannons' ground and we'll have a full set. Oh, yeah, and the place where I lost my virginity…"

"Well, I _did_ spend last night in my parents' spare room…"

He laughs. "There you go, then! Another one ticked off the list!"

"The hospital… you've spent rather a lot of time there too."

"Yeah, that's true. Except it used to be the hospital wing at school rather than St Mungo's, thank God."

"Well, I'm very glad we haven't had to visit_ that_ today."

"Yeah, you probably had enough of it after spending half of second year there."

"Actually, I wasn't thinking about that. I was unconscious for most of it, so I wasn't really aware that I was even in the hospital wing. I was thinking about _you_, actually. Since this is the Grand Tour of_ your_ life, and you were the one who nearly died."

"Ah, well," he says airily, "_Nearly_ died, that hardly counts, does it? And anyway, if it's the Grand Tour of_ my_ life, then it must be_ yours_ too, since you were there for most of it."

"Not then. I wasn't there then."

He frowns, and looks puzzled. "But you were. You were there when I woke up."

"But I didn't see it happen. And what if you _hadn't_ woken up? I hadn't spoken to you in_ days! _I hadn't said a civil word to you in _months!"_

"It was a long time ago, Hermione."

"That's not the point. I should have been there and I wasn't. Just like I should have been there these last two years."

He sips his soapy tea. "Yeah, you should have been," he says, simply. "But the first time was half my fault too. Anyway, it was first thing in the morning, you'd have been at breakfast. And judging by what Harry says, you wouldn't have_ wanted_ to see it. I'm glad_ I_ missed it, to be honest. It sounded horrible. I was literally_ blue_, apparently." He says the last with a kind of grim wonder.

"I know. You still looked dreadful by the time I finally got to see you, about ten hours later. I've never seen anyone look so pale in my life."

"What, even by my usual standards?" he jokes.

"Even by your usual standards, yes. You know, I think that's still the worst I've ever felt. Even after everything that happened in the war. Being stuck outside that damn door for hours and hours, convinced you were going to die and I'd never get to tell you how I felt about you. Trying to remember what the last thing I'd said to you was and being sure it was something awful. Knowing that I'd been a total cow to you for _months_…. I just felt like the worst person in the world."

He looks uncomfortable. "Oh come on, we were _both_ to blame. Anyway, you more than made up for it afterwards. You being there when I woke up was the best birthday present I've ever got. It was like,_ 'Hermione doesn't hate me anymore!_ Oh, yeah, and I'm not dead.' In_ that_ order."

"I promised myself that if you didn't die, I'd never argue with you again."

He lets out a yelp of laughter and I smack him quite hard on the shoulder, annoyed that I'm trying to have a serious conversation with him, and he's treating it like a joke.

"Sorry._ Ow._ But seriously, how long did you think_ that_ would last?"

I can't help a small smile, despite myself. "I was young and naïve, clearly. And desperate. Why else do you think I sneaked back into the hospital wing in the middle of the night to see you?"

He grins. "You wanted to take advantage of me while I was unconscious?"

"Yes, Ronald," I say, dryly, "That's _exactly_ why."

"I knew it!" he laughs, "You're a very bad girl!" His eyes widen in pretend realisation. "You wanted to act out your little night-time fantasy! That's it, isn't it? Oh, my _God!"_

"Shut up!" I protest, feeling my face heat up, "It's not funny! You nearly died! I was _distraught!"_

But he is nearly helpless with laughter in the face of my indignation, and I can't keep up the serious facade for long.

"Right!" I shout, "You asked for it! I think Mr. Tickle needs a taste of his own medicine!"

I wrestle him down onto the chairs, both of us shrieking and laughing and no doubt making a scene.

"No-OH! Stop! Her_mi_one! _Ow!_ Mind the hand, mind the hand!"

"Ronald Weasley?"

We both freeze and look up at the Healer hovering in front of us with a clipboard and a rather weary expression. Ron extricates himself from my arms, his face and ears bright crimson. He smooths down his hair and sits upright again, looking somewhat sheepish.

"Yeah, that's me. Sorry."

"Could you come this way, please?"

Ron gets to his feet and follows the Healer, untying his sweatshirt from around his waist and handing it to me to look after.

"Back in a bit."

"I'll be right here."

--

He's gone just over an hour, during which I have enough time to find out if the coffee is as bad as the tea (it's worse), and wonder if maybe it would be a good thing if he _has _seriously injured his hand, because that would certainly put paid to the Quidditch, wouldn't it? I dismiss the thought straight away - didn't he just tell me how important Quidditch is to him? What kind of selfish thought is that?

--

I thank God or fate that if it hadn't been for Ron's little gate-climbing accident, he might have just gone home, or worse, gone to that nightclub to meet Anna. Of course, spending two hours sitting in Casualty waiting for him to get his broken hand seen to is hardly the stuff of romantic dreams, but it'll do for me. I do believe him, that he just sees her as a friend, that he isn't interested in her romantically. At least, right _now_, he isn't. But if I don't agree to this, what's going to happen? I don't believe he would really just walk away if I said no to this stupid dating plan of his, but do I really want to risk it?

--

I know we've had our problems these last five weeks, but we knew it wasn't going to be easy, didn't we? It was inevitable there'd be arguments. Surely we shouldn't just give up at the first sign of trouble? And anyway, we've got a lot of stuff out in the open now, about Anna, and - other things. I really feel that tonight's been a breakthrough and now we can move on. If I say yes to him, if we're just going to be _dating_… it'll be like moving backwards.

--

_A couple of times a week! _He can't possibly expect me to be satisfied with that. I can't believe _he_ would be happy with that. It sounds to me as though he'd already made his decision before I even came today, and he's sticking to it in that stubborn way of his, even though it's no longer necessary. Even though we've sorted things out now. He just wants to prove a point, that this time he's going to be the one to decide our future, not me. He's punishing me, but he's punishing himself too. I just think it would be a mistake, a terrible, disastrous mistake, and I can't afford to make any more of those where Ron's concerned.

--

"Come on!" he barks, waking me from my reverie and striding past me towards the exit without even waiting for me to catch him up, "Let's get out of here!"

I get to my feet, grab his sweatshirt, and run after him, noticing as I do so that his hand is bandaged up to the wrist.

"What did they say? Are you alright? Is it broken?"

"It_ was,_" he admits, without even slowing down, "Broke three bones in my hand."

"Good thing I persuaded you to come to the hospital, then," I say, trying to keep the smugness from my voice.

"Alright, Miss Told-You-So. Anyway, they've fixed it now, so I can use it again. Shame really, 'cos I was gonna have to ask you to go on top for a while…"

An elderly couple walking past us in the opposite direction turn to frown at him when he says this - "Alright?" says Ron, deadpan - then quickly carry on walking, clearly appalled.

"Ron!" I shush, trying not to laugh.

"Hey, it could have been worse," he says, still far too loudly, "There are a lot of things I use my left hand for that I'm sure they'd_ definitely_ rather not hear ab-"

I shut him up the best way I know how, grabbing his arm to stop him walking and pulling his head down to mine.

"I only meant -" he says, laughing against my mouth.

"Shut up, Ron."

"Make me."

"I'm _trying_."

The door banging open behind us makes us jump apart, and we flatten ourselves against opposite walls to allow four Healers to run past us levitating a very fat old wizard, who is clutching at his leg (which is on backwards) and shrieking like a banshee. The noise is so ungodly I have to cover my ears, then I catch Ron's eye across the corridor, and notice him doing the same. The second they've gone, we both burst out laughing.

"Oh, my _God! _That was like somebody was strangling a pig inside my head!"

"I know! If it had gone on any longer, I'd have hexed his mouth shut!"

"Sod _that! _If it had gone on any longer, I'd have hexed off my own _ears!"_

_--_

We emerge into the London night and there is a slightly awkward moment where we have to adjust to the fact that we have just kissed, but we still haven't actually come to a decision about where our relationship is going. We're no further on than we were three hours ago in the pub, or five hours ago on the Heath. Nothing's changed.

"So…"

"So…"

"Oh, here's your -"

I hand him his sweatshirt and he ties it back around his waist.

"Thanks."

"So why have they bandaged your hand? I thought you said they'd fixed it."

"They have. It's just a precaution, really. I'm not supposed to pick up anything heavy or, you know, fall off any more gates for at least twenty-four hours."

He glances at his watch and lets out a groan. "Twenty to three! God, I'll have to get up for work again in five hours! It's hardly even worth going to bed!"

_"So, don't_,_"_ I think to myself, _"Come home with me instead." _But I don't say it out loud.

"No," I shrug, "I suppose not."

"I need a cup of tea," he says, rubbing his eyes wearily. "A proper cup. That hospital stuff is disgusting. And some fresh air. I hate the smell of hospitals. You can never get it out of your clothes."

_I'd like to get you out of your clothes._

I sigh, and push the thought firmly to the back of my mind. _That_ won't help anything.

"I know where we can get some fresh air," I say aloud.

"Where?"

"Give me your hand and I'll show you."

He deliberately holds his hands behind him, out of my reach. "Tell me where we're going first. Where next on the Grand Tour of my life?"

"Actually, I was thinking of somewhere you've never been before."

He looks surprised. "Oh. Okay. Where?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"Then give me your hand."

"Why?" he jokes, feebly, "Are you going to break the other one?"

I just give him my best "Shut up, Ron" look. He smiles slightly and holds out his uninjured hand, and I take it and turn on the spot.

--

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_Sorry to leave you on another cliffhanger, but this was literally the only place I could split the chapter. Still, at least this time you only have to wait the length of time it takes to __**write a review **__before finding out what happens next, right?_

_Thank you!_

_PB _

_**Seriously, don't even THINK of going and reading Chapter 15 before leaving a review. I've sweated BLOOD on this story...**_

* * *


	15. Chapter 15: Last Match of the Season Pt3

* * *

--

_**Author's Note:**_

--

_I was going to put this bit at the start of Chapter 14, but it seems more appropriate to have it here. So..._

--

_IT'S FINISHED!_

--

_Number of years in the making: 2 3/4 _

_(I first had the idea for this story on New Year's Eve 2005, stuck at home in bed with a heavy cold - which is why it's still set in 2006. Chapters 1 and 2 are still pretty much unchanged from that first draft. Perhaps I should get ill more often!)_

_Number of months I've been writing it for Ffnet: 15 (but it feels like longer)_

_Number of chapters: 15 _

_Number of words: 192,937_

_Number of hits: 34,007 and counting _

_Number of reviews: 428 and counting _

_Number of laptops purchased in order to be able to write at home as well as in my lunch hour: 1_

_Number of laptops that broke exactly one week before I was due to finish the last chapter: 1_

_Number of notebooks filled with my scribblings: 8_

_Number of times I stopped dead in the street in order to jot down an idea or a scrap of dialogue: Ooh, loads_

_Number of periods of oh-God-will-I-ever-finish-this writer's block: 2 (chapter 4 and Chapter 13)_

_Number of chapters that practically wrote themselves: 3 (Chapters 1, 2 and 12)_

_Number of instances of the word "fuck" uttered by Ron: 84_

_Number of instances of the word "fuck" uttered by me (mostly in the last week): 5,462_

_Number of cups of tea, coffee and Activia fig yoghurts consumed: immeasurable _

--

_This for all of you, my lovely readers and reviewers, but especially for Coconut Girl, who was my first ever reviewer for this story over a year ago, has stuck by it ever since, and always leaves a wonderful review. Plus, her early comment "I can't see how you are going to wrap this up in only 2 more chapters" confirmed my nagging doubts that it wasn't realistic to tie everything up with a neat bow only two weeks after they'd got back together. For those of you who can remember back that far, this was originally going to be a mere 5 chapters long (hence the original chapter titles Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Two Weeks Later, which was set on their anniversary). But she was absolutely right; the story needed more depth and development. So it's entirely her fault you've all had to sit through fifteen months and __fifteen __chapters of this! _

_--_

_So for her, and for all of you who have been waiting for what must seem like forever, here - finally! - is The End. _

_As Ron would no doubt say, "Halle-fucking-lujah!"_

_--_

_Pinky Brown, London__, Saturday 11th October 2008_

--

--

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: The Last Match Of The Season (Part Three)**

--

We are standing on a wide shingle beach, with a grassy bank separating us from the salt marshes stretching away beyond and providing a not very effective windbreak. It is very dark except for the not-quite-full moon hanging in the sky above us, and utterly silent except for the sound of the waves sucking at the shingle, dragging it back and forth with the tide. There are no houses, no people, no signs of life in any direction. It is wonderfully desolate and empty. Just us, the sky, the sea, and the stars.

"Where are we?"

"Salthouse. Norfolk. I came here once with my Granddad. There's a tiny village about half a mile back, with a pub and a church and a post office, but apart from that there's nothing here."

I glance up at him, suddenly unsure. "You wanted fresh air."

He laughs, as a gust of wind off the North Sea nearly blows us off our feet. "Well, it's certainly _fresh!_"

He stares out at the dark waves.

"Is it okay?" I ask, uncertainly.

"It's brilliant," he whispers. "I love the sea. What made you think of coming here?"

"Oh, I don't know, it was just something my mum said yesterday."

"It's brilliant," he repeats. "_You're_ brilliant."

He looks around slowly, as though breathing it all in.

"The air smells different here, don't you think?" he murmurs. "Like _air_, rather than..."

"Dirt?"

"Yeah."

--

We make our way to the second ridge of shingle and sit down. For several minutes, we don't say anything at all; we just sit there in the darkness, looking out at the moonlit sea.

Ron shivers slightly and pulls on his sweatshirt, then lies back on the pebbles, gazing up in wonder at the night sky above.

"Look at all the stars," he whispers. "Have you ever seen so many stars?"

"I know. You don't really get to see them properly in London because of the light pollution. You just get that funny pinky-grey smog."

"It's like you're floating in space," he murmurs, awe-struck. "When you lie down all you can see is the sky and the stars. I feel like I could just step forward and fall off the edge off the world."

He notices I am still sitting up, and pats the shingle beside him. "Lie down."

"I'm fine," I mutter, feeling oddly awkward at the thought of lying down next to him when things are still undecided between us.

"Come on, don't be stupid. Lie down. You can't see the stars properly otherwise."

So I lie down beside him, and we both just lie there staring up at the millions of bright stars above our heads. At first I feel slightly anxious, but that feeling soon passes. My Mum was right, there's something about being by the sea. You can't be angry or upset for long. It's so quiet here, so peaceful, the only sound the waves breaking gently on the shingle. We're both speaking quietly, even though there's no-one around, as though we are in a church. As though if we raise our voices, we'll break the spell.

"Is that the Plough?" I ask, pointing at the relevant patch of sky.

"Dunno. I never really paid much attention in Astronomy. Or any of my other lessons…" he adds, turning his head towards me with a grin. "Although I _can_ tell you which one's Cassiopeia…"

"You _can?"_

He laughs. "You could sound a little less surprised!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean -"

"Forget it, I'm kidding. No, it's that one up there."

He grabs my hand before I can stop him, and holds it up to direct it to where he's pointing. I feel my heartbeat speed up a little.

"See? Fred and George showed me it when I was little. They told me that every wizarding family had their own star, and that was ours."

He traces the shape of the constellation in the sky, his large, warm hand closed around mine.

"It looks a bit like a 'W', you see."

"And you believed them?"

He looks a little sheepish. "Yeah, well I was only five! Actually, it wasn't until I was about twelve and we started studying it properly in Astronomy that I realised they'd just been pulling my leg. Pretty stupid, eh?"

"It's not stupid at all!" I protest, "I think it's a lovely story!"

His grin suddenly fades as he looks down and realises we are still holding hands. He returns his gaze to the sky, but he doesn't let go, and he doesn't say anything. We lie there like that for several minutes, the stars forgotten.

"Hermione…" he says, in a slightly choked voice, "Say yes."

A jolt goes through me. "I can't," I whisper. "Two days a week… I need more than that. Come home."

He wrenches his hand out of my grasp, and sits back up again, clutching his knees tightly to his chest.

"You know I can't do that."

I sit up too, placing a hand on his arm. "We've wasted so much time already, Ron. Two years through my stubbornness and stupidity. Two years because neither of us were brave enough to admit how we felt about one another. Another two years fighting a war when we could have been properly together, and believe me, it's one of my biggest regrets that we waited so long. Don't let's waste any more time."

"But that's exactly why I'm _doing_ this, because I don't want any more regrets! If I _don't_ do this, and it all goes wrong again... I don't want to be kicking myself for the rest of my life that I didn't do something to stop it."

"And you think that moving out is going to _help_, do you?"

"Well, what else are we going to do? I've run out of answers. If you don't say yes to this… I don't want it to be over, Hermione."

"Nor do I, remember? _You_ were the one who sprung this ultimatum on me! It doesn't have to be this way."

"I think it does. We couldn't have gone on the way we were going. Something needed to change. One of us needed to make a decision. I just thought that this time, it ought to be me."

"There you go again!" I exclaim.

He frowns. "What do you mean, there I go again?"

_"'This time it ought to be me'!_ Is that what this is all about? You wanting to make a point, get your own back for me leaving last time?"

"No!" he retorts, "Anyway, at least I'm giving you a _choice_, which is more than you gave _me!"_

"Some choice!" I sneer.

"You just upped and left, if you remember, you didn't even _ask_ if I wanted to come with you! You didn't even give me the _chance_ to say yes."

"You can't compare the two situations, Ron. They're completely different. And I really don't think you continually bringing up the past is helping, actually."

"What, so I'm just supposed to pretend none of it ever happened?" he says, scornfully.

"No, of course not. Look, for God's sake, I know what I did was terrible, and I've apologised a thousand times for it. But you keep saying you don't want to hear it any more, you just want to get on with things, and that's what I'm trying to do. _You're_ the one who keeps bringing it up, Ron. _Yes_, I left, _yes_, I was wrong, _yes_, you can win every argument we ever _have_ just by bringing out that trump card, but it's not going to help either of us move on from this."

He opens his mouth to argue back, then stops again, looking both chastened and defiant. "I'm not doing this to make a _point_, Hermione. I'm doing this because I honestly think it's the only chance we've got."

"I was going to give up my flat for you! I was going to move to Devon! I thought that was you _wanted!"_

"I know, and I appreciate the offer, but what would that change, exactly? We'd still be arguing, we'd still have the same problems, we'd just be living somewhere else, that's all. And then, what if it didn't work out? To have got everything I wanted and then lose it all again… I think that would just about kill me, Hermione."

"You just don't want to make a commitment. You want to be able to run back to Harry's if it all goes wrong."

"No, I don't. Believe me, moving back to Harry's isn't a decision I took lightly. You think I want to go back there and tell everyone I failed, just like they all said I would?"

"Then _don't!_ You just need to give it more _time_. It's only been five weeks, Ron!"

"Yes, and it's _already_ not working! What do you think's going to change if I come back, Hermione? Seriously, just because you want something, doesn't mean it's going to happen. I've learnt that lesson the hard way..."

"But -"

He makes a frustrated noise. "Look, do we have to have this conversation _now?"_

"Well, when _are_ we going to have it, Ron? You said yourself; this might be our last night together."

"Yeah, and I don't want to waste it arguing!"

"But if we don't sort this out _now_, there won't be any more chances! You've as good as told me that if I don't agree to this, it's over. You can't expect me to just give up without a fight, surely? Well, I won't do it! I _won't!"_

All the stress and emotion of the last two days finally overwhelms me, and I burst into hot, frustrated tears.

"Oh, sodding _hell_…" he mutters, and moves to my side in a flash, pulling my head against his chest and wrapping his arms around me tightly.

"I'm alright!" I protest, making a half-hearted effort to push him away, and then giving in almost immediately.

_"Shh,"_ he murmurs, stroking my hair.

After a few minutes I manage to get my tears under control, but I still don't move, cocooned in Ron's tight embrace and feeling the soft warmth of his jumper against my cheek.

"You're good at this," I murmur.

"I'm good at lots of things," he says, wryly. "Be more specific."

"Hugging."

He chuckles, and the movement shakes both our bodies. "Well, I've had a lot of practice."

I snuggle up closer. "I used to sit next to you in lessons and wonder what it would feel like to have your arms around me."

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, then he says, quietly, "What _does _it feel like?"

"Warm. Wonderful. Safe."

"Safe?" he whispers.

"_Safe_. Do you remember when you hugged me at Professor Dumbledore's funeral?"

A hesitant nod.

"I do. I remember every second of it. I was so _scared_. I knew that Harry would want to go after Snape and Malfoy, that we probably wouldn't be coming back to school in the Autumn, that nothing was ever going to be the same again. We'd only had six weeks together, and now it might all be taken away from us. It just seemed so unfair. That a few weeks of happiness might be all we'd get… I think that was half the reason I was crying so much. Not just for the death of our Headmaster, but for the death of all my hopes, too. I wouldn't get to finish school, or be Head Girl. We wouldn't get to go to Paris. Everything I'd hoped for from my relationship with you would have to be put on hold. Maybe even indefinitely. And I knew it was the right thing to do, of course, that we had to put Harry and the future of the wizarding world before ourselves, that we didn't really have a _choice_, but that didn't make it any easier to accept."

"And on top of all that, there was this crippling fear that not finishing school was the least of my worries. We were going to fight a _war_. A war that our best friend was at the heart of. A war that we might _lose_. Our Headmaster's death had taught me that. If someone as powerful as he was could be killed, what chance did we have? We might not all survive what we were about to do. I'd nearly lost you once already, Ron. The thought that anything might happen to you… I couldn't bear it."

I wipe the last of the tears from my eyes and look up at him.

"But then you hugged me, and I buried my head in your chest and closed my eyes… You were stroking my hair, just like you are now… and I felt _safe_, somehow, even if it was just for a few moments. It sounds silly, but I felt as though the moment I opened my eyes, the moment I let go of you, that would be it, it would all start up. We'd be at war. I knew it was inevitable, of course, but I just felt that as long as your arms were still around me, as long as you were there by my side, nothing bad could happen. We had to survive, because we had to be together. As though God – or fate, or whatever - wouldn't let one of us die before that happened."

Ron's own eyes are damp with tears now. "Hermione -"

"And that's what it felt like throughout the war, when we were stuck in that bloody cave for months on end, throughout all the terrible things that happened... that your arms were still around me, keeping me safe."

"Do you still feel like that?" he whispers.

My heart breaks a little to have to answer him. "Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" he croaks, and I can hear the anguish in his voice.

"I suppose… I suppose when I left - no, before that, when you didn't ask me to stay - it felt like you had let go. I'm not blaming you, but… these last two years... I just felt so _alone_. I _need_ you, Ron. We need to be together."

I take a deep breath. "You said…you said it's always been about me, those other girls; Lavender and Luna and Linda and Anna… Well, Viktor and Cormac and Jeff; they were all about_ you_. There's never been anyone else for me and there never will be. So we can't function apart from each other? So what? We don't have to. D-_do_ we?"

--

He lets go of me instantly, and moves to sit a few feet away from me, hugging his knees to his chest and wiping his eyes with his sleeve. I'm certain he feels I manipulated that whole conversation for my own ends, to turn the emotional screws. I feel guilty for playing with his emotions like that, for turning it into a plea for him to stay, but I can't let him walk away from us. I did it myself, and I've regretted it ever since. I can't let him make the same mistake. Because it _is_ a mistake, I'm sure of it.

In desperation I throw caution - and the last remnants of my dignity - to the wind.

"Come home, Ron," I plead. "I don't think you want this anymore than I do. We can sort this out, I know we can. Just come home."

He shakes his head. "That wasn't fair, Hermione."

"I know, I'm sorry. But I've got to _try_, haven't I? What if we -"

_"No," _he says, firmly.

A troubled silence descends upon us. He is sitting a few feet in front and to the side of me, so I can't see his expression to know what he is thinking, just his tense profile and the wind ruffling his hair.

"I just don't understand why you're _doing_ this," I tell him. "Don't you _want_ this to work?"

For several minutes he doesn't say anything at all, then he clears his throat and says, quietly, "Two years is a long time, Hermione. It's taken me all that time to even _start _to get over you. It's gonna take a lot longer than five weeks before I can… I mean, that's what this is all _about_, Hermione. That's the whole _point. _I can't go through all that again. I just can't."

He picks up a pebble and hurls it towards the sea, where it disappears beneath the waves with a loud _splosh_.

"At least if we're just dating, I've got less to lose."

I stare at him, not knowing what to say. I think he's kidding himself if he thinks a break-up will be any easier to cope with if we're only dating rather than living together. But what can I do? He obviously thinks there's a high chance I'm going to hurt him again, and he's putting up emotional crash barriers around himself to limit the damage.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, although I feel as though I have apologised so many times, the word has become almost meaningless.

He shakes his head. "I'm not blaming you. This is _my_ decision. I _did _blame you, for the longest time, but there comes a point when you have to accept you're fucking everything up perfectly well on your own. I could have not drunk the rent money and ended up basically homeless for six weeks. I could have swallowed my pride and asked my family for help. I could have moved out of Harry and Ginny's. I could have looked for another job, or made more of an effort to meet new people. It's just that when absolutely everything in your life's shit, it's hard to get up the enthusiasm to do anything about it. And there _was_ a point when just getting out of bed in the morning and forcing myself to get dressed and go to work was about as much as I could manage to do all day. Not even that, sometimes…"

He glances up and our eyes meet. "I know it's not the perfect solution, Hermione. I know you don't want to do it, and I'm sorry for that, but you've got to understand… I _need_ to do this. I need to stop letting things just happen to me and do something for myself."

"Even if it turns out to be a mistake?"

"At least it'll be a mistake _I_ made," he says, wryly.

"Well, that's the stupidest thing I ever _heard!__"_ I exclaim, angrily.

Ron's whole demeanour changes instantly. His shoulders tense, and his face darkens. He opens and closes his mouth several times before he can find the words.

"Right," he mutters. "Okay, then." And he turns his back on me.

I stare at his stiff back in dismay.

"I didn't mean -"

But I can't finish the sentence. I _did_ mean what I said, and we both know it. He can't base a life-changing decision like this on _fear_. We both need to be 100 per cent committed to each other if this is going to work, and how can it if he's already got one foot out of the door? Oh, I understand his reasons for doing this. I understand them all too well. I just can't _accept_ them.

"Ron," I say, imploringly, "Please look at me."

Nothing. No response.

Minutes pass.

Finally, when it seems as though he is never going to speak again, I throw a pebble to get his attention, and it lands beside him in the shingle with a dull _crunch_. He flinches at the noise, but he doesn't say anything and he doesn't look around.

_Well, if Mohammed won't come to the mountain_…

I shuffle forward to sit beside him, and touch his arm gently. "Ron."

_"What?"_ he says, in a resigned voice.

"I missed you this week."

"Missed the sex, you mean?" he jokes, weakly.

"Both. Everything. Your laugh, your arms around me, your kisses, your smile, your stupid jokes, your hair, your eyes looking back at me, your warm body next to me in bed, your legs entwined with mine... I even missed your bloody socks lying on the floor. I just missed _you."_

He runs a weary hand through his hair. "Hermione -"

"I know, I know, you're not going to move back in. I just… wanted you to know, that's all. I'm not pressuring you."

"You sound like Lavender," he says, darkly.

"Lavender?"

He affects a girly, wheedling kind of voice. "Whenever you're ready… I can_ wait_."

His imitation is so horribly accurate that I laugh out loud. "Oh, dear!"

"She had to wait a long bloody time."

"You didn't…_ do_ anything with Lavender, though, did you?" I ask, curiously.

He shakes his head. "Just a bit of snogging and some touching up over the clothes. She wanted to, though. Once, she -"

He stops talking abruptly, and even though I can't be certain in the moonlight, I am willing to bet that his ears have gone crimson.

"She _what?" _I tease.

He shifts uncomfortably. "Well… there was this one time, we were in this empty classroom, and she, um, sort of molested me."

_"What?"_

"No, that's not what I mean, she_ tried_ to, is what I mean. She tried to -" - he lowers his voice, as though the seagulls might be listening in - "Stick her hand down my trousers."

"Bad Lavender! And what did you do?"

"I freaked out and ran away."

I can't help it, I start laughing, and once I start I can't stop.

He just watches me with a resigned sort of amusement on his face. "Oh, you think it's funny, do you?"

"I can... just imagine… your face… Oh, my _God_… I shouldn't laugh, but oh, dear! Poor you!"

"It's not funny! You wouldn't be laughing if it was the other way around!"

"No, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I can completely picture your face, that's all. You were so sweet, and you didn't even know it."

"I wasn't sweet!" he protests, offended, "What's wrong with women? Lavender used to say that as well and it used to annoy the fuck out of me. I've never been sweet in my life!"

"I'm sorry, but you can be incredibly sweet when you want to be. And the idea of you freaking out because some nasty girl wanted to touch you is the sweetest thing _ever_…"

"I'm not sweet," he grumbles, "It was only because she took me by surprise, that's all."

"Oh, so, if you_ hadn't_ been taken by surprise, you'd have_ let_ her?"

_"No!"_ he blurts out, not realising that I am teasing him. "I'd already decided I wanted to split up with her by then. Anyway, I knew if anything like _that_ happened, I wouldn't have a chance in hell with you."

"Well... you _would_. I wouldn't have been happy about it, but I don't think it would have put me off."

"Oh, like I'd have_ told_ you!"

"You probably would have, actually. I know you. You'd have confessed because you felt so guilty about it. It's a good thing I was too distracted at the time to pursue it."

He grins. "By all the snogging, you mean? Yeah, I'm glad we didn't talk about it then, too. We only had six weeks 'til the war started, so I'm glad we didn't waste any of it arguing about Lavender."

"Yes, except we've been arguing about her ever since, haven't we? We argued about her just last week, in fact. Lavender _and _Viktor... Are we going to be arguing about Anna and Luna and Jeff in ten years time, too? Because if we _are_, Ron..."

I stop myself before this sentence can reach its logical conclusion. I don't want this to be over any more than he does.

"If we are, _what?"_ he says, gruffly.

I just shake my head. "We never really sorted all of this out the first time round, did we? Because the war started, and with everything that was going on with Harry, and Bill, and Professor Dumbledore... We never had a proper chance to talk about what happened."

"Well, it didn't really seem important at the time."

"Exactly my point."

"And to be honest, I was just glad to see the back of Lavender and that I'd finally managed to persuade you to go out with me. I didn't exactly want to remind you what an idiot I'd been."

"I didn't want to bring it up either. I just wanted to forget it had ever happened. Maybe if we _had_ discussed it at the time, we wouldn't have spent the last ten years dwelling on this stuff."

"I haven't been_ dwelling_ on it," he protests.

"Nor have I, I just mean... it's never been _resolved_, that's all. We argued about it two years ago as well, didn't we?"

He shrugs. "I suppose so. We argued about lots of things."

"Well, don't you think the reason we keep arguing about the same things is because we've never discussed them properly? Until we do, they're _never_ going to be resolved."

He folds his arms defensively across his chest. "Maybe," he mutters, grudgingly.

"So, should we talk about them now?"

He takes an age to answer, then he just nods.

I take a deep breath. "The thing about Lavender is… you still hold a grudge against Viktor and hardly anything happened with him. You still blame me for that, and yet you had a proper relationship with her, you went out with her for_ months_. I went on _one date _with Viktor, and it meant nothing. I said yes to him because he_ asked_ me, that was all. I would have said yes to Neville if he'd asked me first. I would have said yes to _anyone_ who asked me. Who wants to be the ugly girl no-one wants to take to the ball?"

He stares at me, shocked. "That's what you thought?"

"That's what I thought. And I wanted _you_ to ask me, but you never did. I waited and waited, and eventually Viktor asked me and I said yes, just so I would have someone to go with. And yes, because he was your hero and all the girls fancied him, and I thought it was a sure-fire way to get your attention. And it worked, didn't it?"

He gives a sheepish smile. "It certainly did. You got my attention."

"Yes, except I've been paying for it ever since, haven't I? Twelve years later and we're still having arguments about him."

His face darkens. "That's not just_ my_ fault. _You_ were the one who brought him up in front of Anna."

"I know. I _know_ it's just as much my fault as yours. I know I used to mention his name when I wanted to make you angry, or I wanted to hurt you. It was an easy button to press. But I'm trying to explain how ridiculous it is. He never meant anything to me, and yet we're still arguing about him. That one little decision, to say yes to a boy who asked me to a party when I was fifteen, and all the endless repercussions of that, like ripples in a pond. You only went out with Lavender to pay me back for kissing him before you, didn't you? None of that would ever have happened if I hadn't said yes to Viktor."

"Yeah, well, that was a hard one to forgive."

"But he didn't mean anything to me._ It_ didn't mean anything. I didn't love him. I didn't even _fancy_ him. He was just a friend."

"A friend who you_ kissed_," he says stubbornly.

"Yes, about _twice_." I let out a sigh of frustration. "I don't know whether you still secretly sort of think I went further with Viktor than I did, that it was more serious than I'm letting on. And all it was, was two or three very chaste kisses with - no,_ from_ - someone I didn't even fancy at the time, because I was already in love with _you_."

"He didn't try to touch you or anything?"

"No. He was a perfect gentleman."

"Git."

"What, you'd rather he tried it on?"

"No, of course not."

There is a short silence.

"Why did you call him a git, then?"

He gives a violent shrug. "Force of habit?"

I shake my head. "I don't understand why you're still so bothered about Viktor. Even after all this time, even after I told you it was always _you_ I wanted."

He lets out a short bark of laughter. "You r_eally_ don't know?"

I frown. "I really don't know."

"Because he got there _first_, alright?" he bursts out, "And it should have been me, and I hate that it wasn't, and that most of that was my own stupid fault! He didn't even _know_ you and yet he could see how wonderful you were, and I couldn't, and I spent every day of my life with you. What does that say about _me?" _

"You were fourteen, Ron. Viktor had four years and a lot of experience on you. You can't compare yourself at fourteen to him."

"_Harry_ was the same age as me, and_ he_ managed to ask the girl he liked to the ball."

"Yes,_ eventually_, when it was far too late and she'd already agreed to go with someone else. And anyway, it was more complicated for us, wasn't it? We were best friends, what if it had ruined our friendship, or I had said no?"

He looks aghast. "You might have said _no?" _

"No, of course not, I'm just saying... from _your_ point of view, you had no way of knowing whether I'd say yes or not. It would have been a big risk. That's why you took so long to ask me out, isn't it? Part of it, anyway. That you never really thought I liked you in that way."

He shrugs. "Partly, yeah. For Christ's sake, Harry even had to get me a pity date for the Yule Ball because I couldn't manage to get a girl interested in me on my own. And there _you_ were, with Viktor Krum, International Quidditch star. I mean, come on, how was I supposed to compete with that?"

"You didn't _have_ to compete with him! You just had to _ask_ me, and I would have said _yes!" _

"I _did_ ask you!"

"Yes, about a week before the ball, after you'd already been turned down by someone else! And you didn't even ask me _properly_, you just said, 'Well, you can come with me or Harry'. _Or _Harry! As though you didn't really care _who_ you went with, you just didn't want to look stupid going on your own! What _I _wanted didn't even matter!"

He looks suitably chastened. "Yeah, alright, I admit that wasn't exactly my finest hour. But as soon as I said it, I realised I really _did_ want you to come with me, not Harry. And then three seconds later, when you told me you already _had_ a date… well, it was like being smacked in the face with a Beater's bat. 'What do you _mean_, someone asked you out? Seriously? A real boy? Not just Neville?' And then suddenly realising I was jealous as hell about it."

He gives a hollow laugh. "It was a bit like… discovering a fantastic new broomstick and then finding out that everyone else has already been flying around on it for months."

_"Ron Weasley," I think to myself, wearily, "A Quidditch analogy for every occasion…"_

"And then of course, you turned up with Viktor Krum, and I was really glad I hadn't made an arse of myself by asking you properly, because clearly, you were way, _way_ out of my league..."

--

I bang my head against my knees in frustration. "No, I _wasn't! _God, I wish you would stop saying that! Look, you remember what I was like at that age. I was a nice girl from a nice family with no experience of boys whatsoever, apart from my two idiot best friends. I had no more experience of the opposite sex than you did! Viktor and I… we went on _one_ date, most of which was conducted in front of the _entire school_, so you _know_ that nothing happened. It was a couple of innocent kisses, that's all. You went _out_ with Lavender. You went out with her for _six months_. You did far more than I ever did with Viktor, and you were a lot older, so you had less of an excuse. I was fifteen when Viktor asked me out, and only just fifteen too. You were sixteen and a half, and you did it out of spite."

--

He shakes his head vehemently. "No, that's not true. That's not true at _all. _Alright, so I was older than you, but I was still in the same boat you were when Viktor asked you out. I'd never had a girlfriend, never kissed anyone, never done _anything_… Everybody else seemed to be getting girlfriends and I wasn't even _close_. I thought I didn't stand a chance with you. I thought you only saw me as a friend. And then you asked me to Slughorn's Christmas party and I started to think that maybe you _were _interested; maybe there _was_ a chance after all. Then I found out you'd kissed him, and any tiny pathetic little hope I'd had that you might actually like me as more than friends went straight out the window."

--

"Lavender… I never even cared about her. I just wanted to kiss a girl, any girl - well, not_ any_ girl, I wanted to kiss_ you_, but that wasn't going to happen, so I just grabbed the first person in a skirt that showed the slightest interest in me. You didn't want to be the only girl at the ball who didn't have a partner, and I didn't want to be the only boy in our dorm who'd never kissed anyone. Did you know Neville was Ginny's first kiss? After the Yule Ball? I didn't find that out until I'd left school; she got drunk one night and confessed._ Neville!_ Neville got a snog and I didn't! He was fourteen, for fuck's sake! She was thirteen! Basically, it just seemed like everyone was at it except me. My little sister was onto her third boyfriend, Harry was always surrounded by girls, you were going out with Viktor Krum -"

"But I wasn't!"

"I_ thought_ you were! And then there was me, I'm not smart, I'm not famous -"

I note the change to present tense now he's upset.

"I'm not good-looking, I'm not rich, I'm not even very good at Quidditch, my fucking shoes are held together with Spellotape, and no girl is ever going to look twice at me! So, Lavender… I didn't care whether she was a nice person, or what she looked like, or _anything_, I just threw myself at her because I thought that was going to be the only chance I'd ever get and if I didn't take it, I'd die a virgin. Which I nearly did anyway, ironically..."

He gives a short laugh.

"When I found out about you and Kr - _Viktor_… I was so angry, I couldn't think straight. Not just with you, but with myself too. Why hadn't I said anything earlier? Why hadn't I just _told_ you? And then, but what would have been the point? You obviously weren't interested in me. Why would you be, when you could have Viktor Krum? All my insecurities came out. Of _course_ she fancies him and not me, of _course_ she'd pick him and not me, I'm nothing and he's famous and rich and successful and I'm _nothing."_

"Ron…" I whisper, a lump in my throat now, but he doesn't hear me.

"And before you say it, yes, I _know_ I was a total arsehole to you after I found out, and I'm sorry for that, but I couldn't help it. Every time I looked at you, I just got this image in my head of you with _him_, kissing _him_, doing stuff with _him_, and it made me want to smash things. You remember that time we bumped into him in Gringotts? I wanted to smash his face in then, and that was, what, six years later? I wish it didn't still bother me, Hermione, I really do, but every time you mention his name, it just reminds me of every stupid fuck-up I've ever made over you, every one of the million reasons you should have gone out with him instead of me. It's like watching you walk into the Great Hall with him, or finding out you kissed him before me, all over again."

Something I've been wondering about for years suddenly comes into my mind, but this isn't the moment to ask it.

Instead, I ask, "So that's why you kissed Lavender? To prove something to me?"

He shakes his head. "I didn't think you'd care either way, to be honest. Hardly anyone was even talking to me anymore; you, Harry, Ginny… Everyone was acting like it was _my _fault, and as far as I was concerned, _you_ were the one in the wrong. _You _were the one who'd gone off and snogged Viktor, _I_ hadn't done _anything_. And on top of all that, I was about to be thrown off the team because I was playing so badly, I was getting really bad marks in all my lessons because you weren't checking my homework anymore... even Harry seemed to have given up on me. He told me that if I didn't pull myself together, he'd have to replace me as Keeper, did you know that?"

I nod, soberly. Poor Harry probably had an even worse time of it than we did, trying to remain friends with both of us, while at the same time having to put up with each of us spending half our time complaining bitterly about the other, and the other half refusing point blank to discuss the problem.

"I don't think he really meant it, though," I tell him. "I think he just hoped it would spur you into playing better. Reverse psychology and all that."

"Yeah, I know. To be honest, it kind of made me feel _worse_. It was his first match as Captain and his best mate was screwing it all up for him. If we lost, he'd be the one taking all the flak for it, for putting me on the team in the first place. I'd already lost one friend, I didn't want to lose another."

"Oh, Ron, you wouldn't have _lost_ him! This is _Harry_ we're talking about. He would never have put Quidditch before your friendship."

He shrugs. "Yeah, well, I didn't want to risk it. I told him if we lost the match, I'd resign. I was absolutely sure it was going to be my last ever match as Keeper. I suppose the only positive thing was that at least everyone would blame me instead of Harry. And I could keep a tiny pathetic bit of dignity in resigning rather than being sacked."

"He wouldn't have sa-"

He ignores me. "And _then… _then a mad thing happened. We actually _won_ the match. I wasn't thrown off the team, I actually played _well_ for once, and for the first time in about a week I was actually _happy _and not torturing myself over you and Krum. Well, for about five minutes, anyway. And then you accused me of cheating."

He gives a short laugh. "Like that was the only way I could ever be _good_ at anything!"

"But that wasn't why I said it! You _know_ I don't think that about you!"

He shakes his head. "I'm just trying to explain what it felt like at the _time, _Hermione. You were the one who said we should talk about all this, remember?"

That shuts me up. He has a point.

"So that was the final straw, really. It was like, what's the point? You're never going to like me, you're never going to be impressed by anything I do, you clearly think I'm some sort of massive loser… I just thought, fuck you, I'm sick of you always having a go at me, I'm never going to be good enough for you, so what's the point in even trying. I'm sick of being this idiot, I want to _win_ things, I want to have this feeling _all the time_, and Lavender was just _there_… and I... I kissed her," he finishes, defiantly.

"And the reason I could kiss _her_ and not _you_ was because I had nothing to lose. I didn't care about her, I didn't care if she hit me or freaked out, I didn't care about kissing her in front of everyone, because it didn't _mean_ anything. I didn't stop and think about it beforehand, I just did it. You, I thought about for _years_, and every time I pictured myself telling you, or making a move, it always ended with you recoiling in horror, or telling me you only liked me as a friend, or never speaking to me again. Whereas if _she'd_ done any of those things, I'd have been pretty embarrassed, obviously, but I'd have got over it."

"But that's exactly why it was so easy for me to ask out McLaggen, because I didn't care about his reaction! I half expected him to say 'no', to be honest. And I didn't kiss him either. He kissed me, and I let him, it's completely different. The whole time I was hating myself for sinking so low as to ask out some boy I didn't even like, just to make you jealous. I thought I deserved to be punished."

"So being kissed by McLaggen was your punishment?"

I can hear the note of eager triumph in his voice.

"Something like that." I shake my head. "I thought you chose her because she was _pretty_."

He looks dismayed. "Fuck, Hermione, that's not… I chose her because she was _there, _that's all. Because she didn't turn me down. And yeah, maybe a little bit to prove something to you as well. That _someone_ thought I was worth something, even if you didn't. Actually, I didn't really _choose_ her at all. I just made a stupid spur-of-the-moment decision and spent the next six months paying for it."

He gives a short laugh. "Well… the next _ten years_, really..."

A jolt goes through me. Isn't that just what I did? Told him I was moving to Yorkshire on the spur of the moment, without thinking through the consequences, and ended up paying a very heavy price indeed. I'm still paying it now, in fact. We both are. _God. _When we mess up, we _really_ mess up, don't we?

"I'm sorry," I tell him.

He frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"Well… I made mistakes, too. McLaggen…"

He shrugs. "I don't blame you for that."

"Well, you _should_. I didn't speak to you for six months, either. You were my best friend and I treated you _terribly_ over the whole thing. I should have handled it better."

"You didn't handle it any worse than I did. At least you weren't snogging the face off McLaggen all over the school like I was with Lavender. Every time I think about that now, I just cringe. Why someone didn't just throw a bucket of water over us is beyond me… Why _you_ didn't…" He shakes his head in disbelief.

"I thought you loved her."

He gapes at me. "Why?"

"Well… you were pretty much inseparable for the first couple of months. It was like you were glued together at the mouth."

"We were _inseparable_ because no-one else was _talking_ to me! And because Lavender the Limpet didn't like me hanging around with any of my other friends. Not that I _had_ any, 'cos they all took _your _side."

He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "Look. I'm not gonna lie to you and pretend I didn't enjoy the snogging, but after a while it was all we did. It took us about a fortnight to realise we had nothing else in common, and the rest of the time we were just stringing it out because we wanted to go out with _someone_, even though we both knew it was a dead duck. Misery and snogging was better than misery and _no_ snogging. But I never loved her, Hermione. You do believe that, don't you?"

I nod. "Oh, I _know _you didn't. But at the _time_… well, I just couldn't see why you would go out with her for so long if you didn't have feelings for her."

He looks at me as though I have lost my mind. "_Errr_… sixteen year old boy, remember? A girl wanted to _snog_ me, Hermione. What was I supposed to say? 'No, thanks, I don't have _feelings_ for you'?" He gives a derisory laugh. "I don't _think _so!"

"I think she had feelings for _you_," I tell him, slightly hurt. "In fact, I _know_ she did. I had to listen to her crying on Parvati's shoulder over you enough times."

He shakes his head. "I'm not so sure, to be honest. I think she just liked the drama. I think she just wanted to be in love, she wanted all that grand romance stuff, and even though she'd got lumbered with me, she carried on pretending it was more than it was. That I wasn't just another teenage idiot who just wanted to get my hand up her top."

He shivers slightly in the stiff North Sea breeze, and pulls his sleeves down over his hands for warmth.

--

"She told me she loved me once and I didn't know what to say. I just thought, 'You _don't_, Lavender, you don't even know me. If you knew what I was thinking right now, you'd run away screaming.' Lavender didn't love me. I don't think she even _liked_ me, not really. She just liked the _idea_ of me. She wanted a boyfriend, and she wanted an impressive boyfriend she could show off. She picked me because I was on the Quidditch team, and because I was mates with Harry, and because of all that stuff at the Ministry at the end of fifth year, like I was some great hero or something. It's like, I was famous for about three days and she couldn't have Harry, so she set her sights on me instead. I was a massive disappointment to her, I know that. I don't know what she expected, but it wasn't me."

--

He throws me a furtive, sideways glance. "We used to argue, too. Not like I argued with _you_, where it was always halfway between arguing and flirting, but all these endless, sniping little rows. 'Why are you doing that? Why are you like this? Why can't you do that instead? Other people's boyfriends do this…' Oh God, it used to drive me up the _wall! _Seriously, I was pretty much completely miserable the whole time I was going out with her."

--

"I was a horrible boyfriend, too. _Horrible_. I never showed her any affection apart from the snogging, I didn't want to hold her hand, I hated it when she called me pet names in public, I didn't buy her a Christmas present, I didn't even _pretend_ to like the one she bought me... I made up rubbish excuses not to spend any time with her, like pretending I had homework to do when I didn't. I'd go and hide in my room a lot. At least it was quiet, and I didn't have Lavender trying to climb in my lap and you giving me death stares across the common room every five minutes. And she wanted me to be funny all the time, like I was some sort of performing monkey or something. I mean, you know me; I can be a miserable sod sometimes. Every time she laughed at one of my jokes, I'd act deliberately grumpy just to annoy her. I'd be really sarcastic to her because I knew she wouldn't get the joke and it would go right over her head, and it made me feel like I was smarter than her. Which was a new experience, obviously, after hanging around with _you_ for five years."

--

"Actually, I wasn't very nice to her at all, really. I'm not proud of it, but I was sixteen, in my defence, I was way out of my depth, and I didn't know how you were supposed to act towards your girlfriend. That first couple of weeks when we didn't come up for air, I thought she was brilliant, but as soon as that stopped, and I realised she wasn't going to let me do anything else anytime soon, I lost interest."

--

He stops, and corrects himself swiftly. "No, well – it wasn't _just_ about that. She was just… she thought I'd had girlfriends before her, she thought I was more experienced than I actually was. When she found out I _wasn't_… I dunno, she treated me completely differently after that. There was this weird sort of power shift. Like she resented me for not living up to this ideal she had of me before we got together, even though it wasn't _my_ fault she had all these stupid expectations. And I was just grateful, because she was pretty much the only person still speaking to me by that point, and I think she knew it, too. I suppose I just didn't know any better, either. I'd never had a girlfriend before, so maybe this was what it was like for everyone. Alright, so I didn't actually _like_ her very much, but at least I was getting some action."

--

"I still don't know what _she_ got out of it, except I suppose she got to have a boyfriend who was on the Quidditch team. She would have dropped me in a second if she could have seen what was going on in my head. I remember I went through a really rough patch after Christmas; I was playing even worse than usual, and I was seriously thinking about just packing the whole thing in. I asked her whether she'd still want to go out with me if I wasn't on the Quidditch team, and she just looked really horrified and said, 'You're not going to_ quit_, are you?' Which wasn't really the answer I was hoping for…" He sighs. "Kind of said everything, really."

--

"And of course, the whole time, there was this third person between us... She wanted me to be something I wasn't, and I… I wanted her to be _you_. She knew it, I knew it... We both just knew I'd rather be with you. Even when we were kissing, I was thinking of you. What kind of person puts up with going out with someone, for months and months, knowing that person would rather be with someone else? What kind of person goes out with a girl he doesn't even _like_, just because _not_ having a girlfriend is worse?"

--

"You said you felt like you were punishing yourself by letting McLaggen kiss you. Well, I felt like my whole relationship with Lavender was like some sort of punishment. Like I didn't deserve any better. You know how bad my self esteem was in fifth year? Well, going out with Lavender it went through the sodding _floor_. She made me feel _worse_ about myself. Seriously, three months into that relationship, I was about ready to top myself. I was convinced you hated me. I had a girlfriend I could hardly bear to be in the same room as, who none of my friends liked either. I hardly even _saw_ Harry, let alone talked to him. Lavender expected me to spend every waking minute with her. Harry obviously blamed me for the three of _us_ not being friends anymore. Ginny hardly spoke to me for about three months except to punch me in the arm and call me a bastard every time she walked past me. School was shit, Quidditch was shit... I couldn't see things ever getting any better. I just knew I'd end up leaving school with no NEWTs and having to get a job as a bus conductor or something. Getting poisoned was an _improvement_."

--

He gives an ironic laugh. "Something of a wake-up call, too. _Literally_, because the second I woke up and saw you sitting there by my bedside, I _really _woke up, if you know what I mean. Realised what a total plank I'd been. Realised how badly I'd fucked things up. Realised I'd got a second chance with you that I _really_ didn't deserve."

"Yes, except -" I have to stop and clear my throat, my voice sounding cracked and strange with emotion, and from staying silent for so long. "Except then you took another _two months _to do anything about it. You carried on going out with her, even though you knew how I felt about you."

He gives a guilty shrug. "Not really. Sometimes I thought I did, but then other times it still just seemed really unlikely, so I'd talk myself out of it. You know how good I am at talking myself out of things." He forces an ironic laugh. "And then, of course, there was the Lavender problem…"

"Ah, yes," I say dryly, _"The Lavender problem." _

"It wasn't just_ my_ fault," he protests. "She knew I liked you. Probably knew I liked you more than I liked her, and she _still_ let it drag on for months instead of putting us both out of our misery and just dumping me."

"_You_ could have dumped _her_. You _should_ have dumped her before Christmas."

"Yeah, and I might have done, except then you went and asked McLaggen to Slughorn's Christmas party, and after that... well, there didn't seem to be much point."

"But I only asked him out to make you jealous! You _know_ that!"

He looks uncomfortable. "Yeah, I do _now_, but at the time… well, it was just confirmation of everything I suspected."

I sigh. "Which was?"

"Well… you know, that you never really liked me in _that_ way at all, and you only asked me to Slughorn's party in the first place because you felt sorry for me. And… that you obviously had a certain _type_, and that wasn't me."

"_Type?"_ I repeat, confused.

"Yeah, you know... big muscly blokes with arms like tree-trunks." He holds his arms away from his body like a gorilla and pulls a moronic face.

I shake my head in disbelief. "But that didn't _matter_ to me! The only reason I picked McLaggen was because he was your rival for the Keeper position. Because I knew it would drive you mad with jealousy if you still liked me_. If_... It was a test. How he _looked_... that was irrelevant. I just used him to get back at you. I was jealous, and I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me, but at the same time, I wanted you to see us together and realise that you didn't like Lavender after all. I just wanted a reaction, to know that you still cared. And when I didn't _get_ one… well, I just assumed that you _didn't _care, after all."

"You thought I didn't _care? _Christ, while you were off snogging him at the party, I was up in my room, hiding from Lavender and feeling mightily sorry for myself because I was going out with this stupid girl who made me want to kill myself just for a bit of light relief, while the girl I_ really_ liked apparently _hated_ me!"

"Well, you never said anything! I thought you'd go mad with jealousy, shout at me, punch _him_,_ something..._ but you didn't. You didn't say a word. I thought I must be wrong about you liking me after all. What other explanation was there?"

"I thought you'd liked him all along! I thought you chose him because he was the better player -"

"That's ridiculous! Since when I have cared anything about Quidditch? And I certainly wasn't the type of girl who only went out with boys because they were on the team. I wasn't _Lavender. _Why would you even _think_ that?"

"Because you _said_ so! You said you only liked boys who were _really good _Quidditch players! You said it _right_ _in front _of me!"

"Yes, but I didn't _mean _it! I just said it to get back at you, get a reaction! I said it -" I feel thoroughly ashamed all of a sudden - "I said it to _hurt _you, that's all."

"Well, how was _I_ supposed to know that?"

"Because… because… you should have known me better than that! When have I _ever_ expressed an interest in Quidditch, Ron?"

"You went out with _Viktor Krum_, Hermione!"

"Not because he was a Quidditch player! Because he was _nice_, and he _asked_ me, that's all! None of that other stuff ever mattered to me!"

"Well, you could have tried telling _me_ that!" He runs his hand through his hair in frustration. "You know I told you the reason I wanted to get on the team was because I wanted to be _good _at something for a change? Well, that's not _entirely_ true…"

I stare at him. "You wanted to get on the team because you thought I was only interested in Quidditch players?"

He shrugs. "I thought it might _help_, yeah."

"But that's… but I never cared about any of that stuff… I was the one who told you to give up the team because it was only making you miserable, remember?"

He laughs, bitterly. "Yeah, and you can imagine how _that_ made me feel! I joined the team to impress you, and ended up just making you feel sorry for me instead!"

"I didn't feel _sorry_ for you. I just didn't see why you would carry on with something, when you -"

"Were rubbish at it?"

"That wasn't what I was going to say! Why you would carry on with something, when you weren't _enjoying_ it?"

He gives a short laugh. "You could say the same about me and Lavender."

"Well, why _did _you carry on going out with her for so long? Why didn't you just tell her you didn't want to go out with her anymore?"

"Why would I do that?"

I stare at him, incredulously. "You just said she made you miserable!"

"Yeah, but she still _liked_ me, which was more than you did. It's not like if I wasn't going out with her you'd have suddenly started speaking to me again. I'd still be miserable, I just wouldn't be getting any action."

"But I _would_, Ron. If you had dropped her, I would have started speaking to you again straight away. Then that whole ridiculous business with McLaggen might never have happened, either."

"But I didn't know that, did I? Anyway, she was pretty, she was popular, what excuse did I have to dump her? People would think I was _nuts. _And I… I didn't want to be a failure at that as well as everything else. You know, couldn't even keep a girlfriend more than five minutes without fucking it up."

He sighs. "Anyway, I didn't want to upset her. Didn't want to be the bastard. Of course, I was actually being more of a bastard by letting it drag on for so long, and just behaving worse and worse towards her in the hope that she'd get fed up and dump _me_. Seriously, you think _our_ relationship is complicated, we've got nothing on me and Lavender in the twisted stakes."

"Our relationship isn't complicated, Ron. It _wasn't_, anyway. We met, fell in love, got together… what could be more simple than that? Alright, so we took our time about it, and there were a few little hiccups and misunderstandings along the way -"

"A _few?_" he scoffs.

"But we've both always known the other was the one we wanted, haven't we? And after everything we've been through - Viktor and Lavender, the war, the break-up… I know it now more than ever. Of course I have regrets. Of course there are things I wish I'd done differently. And I know you're sick of all the apologies, so this is the last time I'm going to say it, but -"

I take a deep breath. "I love you very, very much and... I am sorry."

"For what?"

"For taking you for granted. For taking it out on you when I should have realised that it was my problem. For leaving. For some of the things I said in anger that I wish I could take back. For not getting my priorities sorted. For not staying and trying to sort things out between us. For waiting for you to come to me when I should have thrown my pride to the wind and come back to see_ you_. For taking too long to realise that love should be enough. For everything you've been through over the last two years. For all that time we can never get back. For ruining everything. For hurting you. For saying no that time you asked me to marry you, even if we _were_ too young. For God's sake, after everything we'd been through and how long we'd known each other, what the hell was I waiting for? And I'm sorry I kissed Viktor and Cormac before you. If it helps, I always think of our first kiss as my _proper_ first kiss. For not making it properly clear that it wasn't Viktor I was interested in. For waiting for you to ask me out when I should have been brave enough to make a move myself. For those fourteen weeks I didn't speak to you in sixth year. For making you wait two and a half years to see me naked. For that time I threw a cup of tea at you. For -"

I take a deep breath. "For everything."

He doesn't say anything for a long time, and then he says quietly, "I'm sorry too."

"What for?"

"For arguing back. For making it hard for you to stay. Whatever I've said before I do know you did it for the right reasons, in the end. Things couldn't have gone on much longer the way they were. For some of the things I said to_ you_ before you left. For not trying hard enough to stop you leaving until it was too late. For just giving up and spending two years sitting around feeling sorry for myself, instead of coming up here and trying to fix things. For not having the guts to say anything that time I saw you in Charing Cross Road. For Luna. For going out with Lavender. For not chucking her sooner so we could have had another couple of months together before the war got in the way. For not asking you to the ball that time and for acting like an arsehole about it when somebody else asked you instead. For every stupid, sarcastic little remark I've ever made about Viktor Krum. For taking about a million years to realise I had something wonderful right under my nose, and for being too scared to do anything about it. For nearly getting you killed by a troll. For that time I fell asleep when we were having sex. For that eight hour Quidditch match I made you sit you through in the rain. Erm... for -"

I reach across and press a finger to his lips. "I'm sorry I said you had the emotional range of a teaspoon. I've never been more wrong about anything in my entire life."

"Yeah," he jokes, "It's at least a tablespoon, right?"

He forces the weakest of laughs, and I suddenly remember what it was I wanted to ask him earlier.

"Can… can I ask you something?"

He nods.

"You know you used to say that you were lucky to get to me early before I realised I could do better…?"

His face clouds over and he looks away from me, down at his shoes.

"It was a joke," he mutters, "I was joking."

"Because you know you're wrong, don't you?"

"It was a _joke_," he repeats. "I just meant, if we'd met as adults you wouldn't have looked twice at me, that's all. We've got nothing in common apart from our history. If we'd met at work, we'd have hated each other."

"I don't think that's true. And anyway, we hated each other when we first met at school too, or had you forgotten? But then we got to know each other _properly_. And as for not looking at you twice… you have no idea."

"Yeah, you'd have gone -" - he demonstrates a comedy double-take - "Christ, what _is_ that ginger-haired bloke wearing? Is that a _Mr. Tickle _t-shirt?"

He chuckles to himself but I don't laugh. He is deflecting the attention away from himself with a joke again, and I'm not going to let him.

I watch him staring down at his shoes, his shoulders hunched and his brow knit in a frown, and suddenly realise something.

"Do you still feel like you're nothing, Ron?"

He just shrugs miserably.

"Do you have any idea how wonderful you are?"

"If I'm so wonderful, why did you leave?"

The bitterness in his voice makes me look up sharply, and we stare at each other.

"Because I'm an_ idiot_, Ron. I didn't leave because I was fed up with _you_, or because I wanted someone better, or because I stopped fancying you, or didn't love you anymore. The reason I left was_ me_. Me and_ my_ insecurities, for once. I made it all about you, when I should have realised that it was_ my_ problem."

Ron continues to look sceptical.

I rub my eyes, wearily. "I think I put a lot of my issues on to you, to be honest. All that stuff about you not having any ambition, and not caring about the future... I don't know, maybe it was because you were happy with the way things were, and I wasn't… Maybe I thought that if you felt the same way, it wouldn't be my fault, it wouldn't be _me_ that had the problem. _Just_ me, I mean. I wished I could feel that way myself, that I didn't feel this terror at the thought of my life slipping away from me and not having achieved any of the things I'd set out to achieve... Yes, we'd fought a war and won, but my God, we weren't even twenty then, was that going to be it, for the rest of our lives? I mean, what happens when you save the world at nineteen? What are you supposed to do after that? Just settle down and be normal like everyone else?"

_"Yes!"_

We stare at each other.

"Well, I couldn't do, that, Ron. I didn't want to look back on my life when I was forty and realise that from then on it all had been disappointments and thwarted ambitions. I didn't want to look back and realise I'd just settled for normal."

"So being with me was _settling?"_

"No, of course not. That's not what I meant."

"Right," he says, with the distinct air of someone who doesn't believe a word of it.

I shrug, helplessly. "I don't know what else I can say."

I watch him violently yank a loose bit of thread from the increasingly ragged edge of his bandage.

"I don't want you to be with me because you just haven't found anything _better_, Hermione. If you're just _settling…"_

"But I'm _not! _You're twisting my words!"

"_You_ said it!"

"I was talking about my _job_, not you! Oh, _God!" _

I let out a cry of frustration.

"Look. You asked me once, what I wanted, and I couldn't give you an answer because I didn't know. Well... now I do."

He doesn't say anything, waiting.

"_You're_ what I want, Ron. You always were."

"You said that to me once before, too. And then you _left." _

"That's not fair, Ron. I'm trying to make you realise that_ you_ are the only one I want. Not Viktor, not McLaggen, not Harry, not Jeff;_ you_. What do I have to do to persuade you of that?"

"Not leave?" he mutters under his breath.

I have to fight the impulse to slap him. Instead I just take a deep breath and ask once more, "What do I have to do to prove to you that you're the only one I want?"

He just shrugs.

"Do I have to tattoo your name on my arse? Because I will, you know. If that's what you want, I'll do it!"

He stares at me, looking awed and more than a little scared. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

"I don't want you to tattoo my name on your arse, Hermione," he says, sounding slightly revolted.

I scrabble through my bag looking for a pen. "Fine. Write your name on my arm."

_"What?" _

"Write your name on me. It doesn't have to be my arm. Write it anywhere you want."

"No."

"I'm asking you to do it."

He stares at me for a few seconds, his expression unreadable, then he takes the pen from my hand and, still looking at me, takes my arm and slowly, carefully, signs his name on my forearm.

"There you go," I say triumphantly, "I'm yours now."

"Hermione -"

"I always was, of course, but now you've written your name on me, there's physical proof. I belong to you. You own me."

"I don't want to own you."

"No, I don't mean it like that, I just mean… I'm yours, that's all. I must be yours," I joke, feebly, "Look; I've got your name written in me."

_"In_ you?"

"You know, like a coat or a pair of gloves."

He looks blank.

"Didn't your mum ever write your name in your coat so it wouldn't get lost at primary school?"

"No!"

"No, of course not, you were taught at home, weren't you?"

He taps his forehead and rolls his eyes, as if to say, _"Mental…" _

"Shut up!" I laugh, "It's perfectly normal! Ask Harry!"

He grins, and looks down at his feet. "So now I own you…" he jokes, in a blatant attempt to diffuse the strange atmosphere, "Does that mean I can sell you if I want to?"

"No," I say, firmly. "You're stuck with me for life."

He glances out to sea and a slight breeze ruffles his hair. "This doesn't change anything, you know. I'm still not coming back."

"I know. I just wanted to… to make a commitment. To let you know that I'm yours forever. If… if you decide you want me, that is."

--

He is still staring out into the darkness, and I can't tell at all what he is thinking. My smile wavers, and I begin to wonder if I haven't horribly misjudged this entire situation. Finally he hands me back the pen and wordlessly pushes back the sleeve of his own jumper, holding out his forearm to me. My own hand shaking slightly, I write my name on his arm, not signing it, as he did, but using his freckles to join the dots and form odd shaped letters, with the result that my name looks like it was written by a hyperactive toddler. A faint smile crosses his lips as he looks down at my name on his arm.

--

I put the pen back in my bag. "You know we have the same number of letters in our names, don't you?"

He raises a sceptical eyebrow. "How d'you work that one out?"

I laugh. "Because we _do!_ Including our middle names, we both have nineteen letters in our names."

"So what does that mean? I never did Numerology."

"Actually, nothing," I admit. "That's not how Numerology works." I feel myself blush. "It was one of the first things I did when I started studying the subject, actually. Looked up to see how compatible we were."

He chuckles. "You sound like Lavender. I remember she did this chart, proving that we were destined to be together because I was a water sign, and she was a… whatever she was."

"Numerology is nothing _like_ Astrology!" I protest, thoroughly put out at being compared to Lavender, "There are very sound mathematical principles behind it, which you certainly can't say about Astrology!"

"Lavender said we were opposite star signs. Me and you, I mean. She said that was why we argued all the time."

"No, we_ argued_ because we couldn't do what we_ really_ wanted to do to each other."

To my immense gratification, he blushes.

"Besides, I think Lavender might have had an ulterior motive for making you think we were incompatible, don't you?"

"Huh?"

"Well, like wanting to get in your trousers…"

He groans. "Oh, _God! _Don't remind me!"

--

We both laugh, and I look down at his name on my arm, and suddenly realise that this _is_ enough commitment for me. I know he wants this just as much as I do. I know he'll try his hardest to make this work. And really, shouldn't that be enough? I thought this was going to be the end, but he's still offering hope, the chance of something, a possible future. He still wants the same thing I do, doesn't he? He still wants _us. _Yesterday I thought I might never see him again. Shouldn't I be grateful for that? I can't lose him again, not after everything we've gone through. I can't take that risk.

And suddenly, I know _exactly_ what I need to do to prove to him that he is the only one I want.

_Say yes. _

_--_

"Well…" I begin, weakly, "If we're going to be..." - I can hardly bring myself to say the word - "_Dating_... what does that involve, exactly?"

He flashes me a grateful smile. "I suppose it means we go on _dates_."

"What, like to the cinema, that kind of thing?"

He nods.

"Okay," I say, feeling rather as though I've just made the worst deal of my life.

"Okay?" he asks, hardly daring to believe it.

I shrug. "Okay. _Yes_."

He lets out a long breath all at once. "Great!"

Great is not the word I would use to describe this feeling. Sick, anxious, unhappy... an overwhelming sense of loss. I feel like I want to crawl into a dark hole somewhere and cry.

He obviously realises I am less than happy about my decision, because his smile fades and he continues to watches me, frowning.

"Hermione, I'm sorry. I know you don't want to do this, but I really think it's the only chance we've got."

"I _know!_" I snap, a little too aggressively. "You said that already. I said _yes_, didn't I? You got what you wanted. Let it go."

"But if you're not _happy_ about it…"

"Let it _go_, Ron."

"So…" he begins, brightly, after a particularly tense and protracted silence, "I suppose if we're going to be _dating,_ I should probably ask you out first…"

I frown at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "Well, I never did last time, did I? Not properly, anyway. I just sort of -"

I manage a small, tight smile. "Kissed me."

He smiles too. "Yeah, except I didn't even manage that, did I? _You_ kissed _me_."

"Well, I suddenly wondered what the hell I was waiting for."

"You were waiting for me to stop being a muppet and get up the nerve to ask you."

"Yes, but why should _you_ have to do all the work? I knew you wanted to, _I _wanted you to, so why _couldn't_ I ask you out?"

He laughs. "Except_ you_ didn't ask_ either!"_

I smile. "No, I didn't."

"Which, when you to come to think about it, is pretty funny considering we're both_ talkers_…"

"Well, you've always been the only person who can get me to shut up, you know that."

He affects shock. "Are you..._ flirting_ with me?"

"I might be. What are you going to do about it?"

A faint grin crosses his face. "Do something I should have done ten years ago."

"Oh, yes? And what would that be exactly?"

He takes a deep breath. "Hermione?"

"What?"

"Will you go out with me?"

I can't help it, I start laughing too.

"You're not supposed to laugh!" he protests.

"I'm sorry, it's just - it's funny, that's all."

"Me asking you out is _funny?"_

"Well -" I suddenly realise that he really isn't joking, that I am being asked out properly, the way he wanted to when he was sixteen. "No, of course not. I'm sorry. You just took me by surprise, that's all. Ask me again."

"You won't laugh this time?"

"No. I promise."

"Hermione Granger, will you go out with me?"

I have to turn my head away to hide my smile. "Yes. Yes, I'd love to!"

We beam at each other slightly foolishly, then there is an awkward moment where we are not sure whether we are allowed to kiss or not.

"So how did I do?" he asks, eventually.

"Hmm?"

"On the finally asking you out?"

I pretend to consider. "Not _bad_… but I think I liked it better the _first_ time around…"

He laughs out loud, and I am seized with the desire to kiss him. Instead, I ask, "Do you know what I kept thinking, Ron? That first night you came back?"

"What?" he says, warily.

"I kept thinking how much I'd missed hearing you laugh. You have the best laugh in the world, did you know that?"

He flushes slightly. "Yours is pretty good," he mumbles.

"Yes, but _yours_… it's infectious. They should bottle it, it would stop wars."

He raises his eyebrows at me in an I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that fashion, and his serious expression begins to slip, until we both burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry!" I gasp, "That was quite possibly the most hideously trite thing I've ever said. My Mum would be _appalled_…"

He shakes his head. "I _love _your mum, she's hilarious. I can see where you get your dry sense of humour from. Plus, of course, if it hadn't been for her and your dad going to that wedding in Scotland for the weekend, I'd probably still be a virgin."

"Oh, God!" I suddenly exclaim, "I didn't tell you, did I? They've split up!"

"Your Mum and Dad?" he exclaims, horrified.

"No, Mark and Carol! The couple whose wedding it was. They got divorced last year."

We stare at each other as my words sink in. It seems significant somehow. This other couple we didn't know who were starting out on a new stage of their life together, just as we were embarking on a rather _different _stage in ours.

"Did they have any kids?" Ron asks, unusually sober now.

"No. Well - yes, but not together. They were in their fifties when they got married. I think they had grown-up children from previous relationships."

He is silent for a minute, prodding at the pebbles with the splintered remains of his wand, then he says, quietly, "Do you still want kids? I know we were sort of joking about it last weekend, but… I mean, it was the one of the reasons you left, wasn't it?"

"What was?"

"That you didn't want to get married and have kids. You didn't want to end up like my mum."

"No, that's not it at all. That was never it. I always wanted children with you, I just... I was twenty-four when I left, Ron. I didn't want them _yet_, that's all. You didn't either, did you?"

A shrug. "I suppose."

_"Did _you?" I ask, somewhat taken aback.

Another shrug. "I don't know," he admits. "I mean, I don't think I'd have been devastated, you know... if you'd said you were… I think I'd have been _happy_ about it. But… I can barely manage my own life, let alone a kid. The thought of being responsible for a whole new person does sort of scare the shit out of me a bit. Alright, a _lot_."

Our eyes meet.

"Me too," I say, softly.

"Bill says you're never ready," he goes on. "He says the first one is terrifying, but then you just get on with it, and by the time the second one comes along, you feel like you could cope with anything."

"You've got good role models, though," I muse. "I mean, your mum and dad brought up seven kids and you've all turned out okay."

He smiles slightly. "Yeah, none of us have turned out to be Tornados fans or anything. They did alright. I still say seven is too many, though."

There is a short pause.

"So," he says, in a casual voice, "You do still _want_ kids, then?"

We look at each other.

"I'm not asking you to sign a contract or anything," he says, misreading my expression.

"I _know_, Ron. Of course I still want kids. I never had any doubts about that. I just..."

I sigh, heavily. "I suppose I just felt that time was slipping away from me. I was coming up for twenty-five, and it felt like something of a milestone. Five years had gone by before I knew it, and I hadn't achieved any of the things I wanted to achieve. My job wasn't working out like I'd hoped. I wasn't doing anything remotely worthwhile with my life. I wasn't _helping_ people."

--

"I just felt that I'd failed myself, and what sort of example would I be to my own daughter if I didn't reach my true potential? You don't understand; I've always had it, my whole life. My parents, my teachers, everyone around me, telling me I was destined for great things, that I could do whatever I wanted, that I was going to make them so _proud_. You used to say it too. You used to tell me I was the most brilliant witch you'd ever met. I felt like I was letting all those people down. Letting _myself_ down."

--

"And then there was all the pressure from our family and friends about getting married and having kids, too. 'When are we going to hear the patter of tiny feet?' 'You're not getting any younger, you know.' 'Isn't it about time you made it legal?' That kind of thing. And I didn't feel ready for any of that. I didn't feel ready to be a _wife_, or a _mother_, because to me that's always been something you do _instead_ of having a career. You're right that I didn't want to end up like your mum, giving up my life for my husband and children, living my life vicariously through their achievements. And that's fine for her," I add, hastily, "It's what she wanted. But it's not what _I _want."

"It's not what _I _want, either," he protests. "Contrary to popular belief, Hermione, not all men want to marry their mothers, you know. For Christ's sake, if _that's_ what I wanted, I'd have married _Lavender..."_

I laugh, despite myself. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Oh, God, forget it. No more apologies, alright? I reckon we've both done enough apologising for a lifetime, don't you?"

I nod. "Okay."

"Okay. And having just said that... I'm sorry if I made you feel pressured. You know, about getting married and having kids and being tied down and stuff..."

--

I shake my head fervently. "You didn't, Ron. That was all me. I should have seen it coming. We're from such different backgrounds, it was inevitable, really. People from wizarding families tend to get married younger than those from Muggle families. For you, it's normal to get married in your early twenties. For me, I never imagined getting married before I was thirty, because my mum was about that age when she married my dad. And it was easier for her, because she only had one child, and she could afford help, so she was able to go back to work pretty quickly, but I knew you wanted more than one child. I did too. _Do_, too."

--

"And of course, women have to think about biology as well. You can't leave it too late to think about having children, especially if you want more than one, so that means the time you have to actually do something with your life while you only have yourself to worry about gets less and less. I suppose I felt that I only had four years left to make something of myself. I was nearly twenty-five already, I was just drifting along, time was passing, and I started to panic that before I knew it I'd be married with a couple of kids, and I wouldn't have the time or the energy to invest in all those grand projects anymore. I just couldn't see how I could fit in everything I wanted to achieve in just four years, when I still didn't even know what it was I wanted to _do!"_

--

I let out an ironic laugh. "I think in Muggle terms it's called a quarter-life crisis. It sounds stupid, I know, but that's the only way I can describe it."

I shake my head. "I know, I know, it's silly. My mum said the same. I wish I'd talked to her about this two years ago. I wish I'd talked to_ you_ about it two years ago too, but I didn't even understand myself what the issue was. I'm sorry it took me until yesterday to finally realise."

"I wish you'd talked to me about it, too. I mean, if you'd just _said_ you were having problems at work, maybe we could have talked about it properly. We could have worked it out _together._"

"But I didn't _know_ that was the problem, Ron. Honestly, I didn't think any of this at the time. I'm just trying to figure it out now. Why what happened… _happened_."

--

I stare out to sea for several long seconds, lost in thought, then turn to face him. "What do _you_ want?"

"What do you mean?"

"From life. From me. From the future. All we've talked about is what _I _want."

He is silent for a few moments, then he says, "I want the same things I've always wanted. "

"Which are?"

"I want boring things, Hermione. Marriage and kids and all that stuff. A job I enjoy that pays enough to live on and a little bit extra. I want to be able to afford to go on holiday once a year and maybe buy a house one day. I want my kids never to have to wear anything second hand. I want to be able to take my wife out for a nice meal now and again. And you can say I'm unambitious if you want. Maybe I am. I don't really care. I don't want to have to think about work when I come home. It's only a job. Family's more important."

I suddenly realise that by family, he means me. Not his parents and brothers and sister and nephews, all the people I've always _thought_ of as _his_ family. Me, and our imaginary future children.

"Well, that's what _I _want too. A job I enjoy and enough money to be comfortable, and you beside me."

He shakes his head. "Yeah, but it's not _all _you want, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You want more than that. A job you just _enjoy_ isn't going to be enough for you. It wasn't before and I'd bet my right arm it isn't now. And that's fine, it's one of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place. Because you had all these _ideas_. But what's to stop you finding out what it is you want, and then realising that doesn't include me?"

I am silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say. Then I let out a long sigh.

"Well, alright. Maybe a job I just enjoy _isn't_ going to be enough for me. But that doesn't mean I don't need _you_ in my life as well."

I shake my head. "I don't know what else I can say to convince you of that. I said '_yes',_ Ron. Against my better judgement, even though I still think it's a mistake. I said it to prove to you how much this means to me. How much _you_ mean to me."

"You still think it's a mistake?"

"I hope not. I really, really hope not."

We look at each other.

--

"Ron..." I begin, cautiously, feeling the need to explain something, "What I said earlier... I didn't mean to make you feel bad, but... This whole self-deprecating charm thing you've got going on... you know I love you for it, but sometimes I just want to scream at you to shut up. I don't think you're unambitious, Ron. I think you're a teensy little bit easily distracted and you have a tendency to let things drift along, but when you really care about something, you throw yourself into it wholeheartedly. I just don't think you've found what that thing is yet. And that's not a criticism. I haven't found it either."

--

"Look, I know I didn't exactly help your self-esteem by leaving you, and I'm sorry for that, but you need to know... none of that was anything to do with you not being good enough. For me, for yourself, for _anyone_. One of the reasons I was so angry with you was because you're better than a job measuring hoop sizes. You could do so much more, if only you put your mind to it."

He screws up his face in frustration. "I _know_," he says, through gritted teeth. "And I don't feel like I'm nothing, either. Not anymore, anyway." He gives a short laugh. "I feel like I've _got_ nothing, but that's a whole different issue..."

He sees my reproachful look and lets out a sigh. "I don't think I'm nothing, Hermione. I don't mean half the things I say. They're _jokes_, that's all. You of all people should know that by now. My 'whole self-deprecating charm thing'..." – he invests the phrase with as much scorn as he can manage – "It's just the way I am. You might as well ask me to stop breathing."

I feel suitably chastened. "I'm sor-"

He cuts me off. "And as for my _job_... I was just starting out, Hermione. I'd been in the job four years, of _course_ I wasn't expecting to do it for the rest of my life. I was just happy to get a chance to live like a normal person for a little while. Just go to work, come home, not have to think about it, have dinner, shag my girlfriend... Just enjoy being alive and not having any worries. Harry's the same, why didn't you have a go at _him_ about it?"

"Because I wasn't going _out _with him! _You're_ the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, and I didn't want you to be restless and bored and miserable in a job that didn't fulfil you."

"I wasn't restless and bored and miserable! That was _you!"_

I open my mouth to argue back, but then have to concede the point.

He gives an ironic laugh. "Of course, now I _am_ restless and bored and miserable…"

"You are?" I ask, surprised. "You haven't said anything."

He doesn't say anything for almost a full minute, and then he sighs. "I've been doing this job for nearly seven years, Hermione. I could do it standing on my head. I could do it_ blindfold_ and standing on my head."

"Now that I'd pay to see..." I offer him a smile, but he doesn't return it.

"Well, why don't you leave?" I ask.

"And do what?"

A rush of excitement surges through me. "Come travelling with me!"

He laughs. _"What?"_

"Come travelling with me. We can both pack in our jobs for six months, see where it takes us. When are we ever going to get the chance again? It's perfect timing!"

He frowns. "I haven't got any money, Hermione."

"No, but_ I_ have. No, Ron, wait -" (for he shows every sign of interrupting) "That money. I don't want it. It's just misery money. The only reason I have it is because I was so unhappy without you that I worked overtime every night, every weekend, just so I wouldn't be alone. I earned it by being miserable, what could be better than using it to make myself happy again? And _you're _the only thing that makes me happy, Ron."

"I'm not taking your money," he says stubbornly, seeming not to hear my heartfelt words and only hearing the word _money_.

"Well, _I _don't want it!"

"Give it away, then. Burn it. I'm sure you can think of_ something_ to do with it."

"Yes, I can. I want to go travelling."

"So _do _that, then!"

"But I don't want to do it without you!"

We stare at each other for several long seconds, then he bites his lip and looks away. "How much would I need to go travelling for six months?"

My stomach flips over in excitement. It sounds as though he is coming round to the idea, if he could pay for it himself.

I shrug. "I don't know. A thousand pounds maybe?"

As soon as I say it, I'm certain the true amount would be a lot more, but I push the doubts to the back of my mind.

He frowns, and I can see him trying to work out what that is in 'normal money' in his head.

"It's cheaper to travel by Floo Network of course," I continue, quickly, "But half the joy of travelling is the getting there. It would be more fun to use trains. You might even finally get to go on that plane!"

"I haven't got a, what do you call it, passcard, remember?"

"Oh." I am temporarily fazed, but then I brighten again, "No, of course not. Well, that's alright, we can Floo to the relevant country, then travel by train. You don't need a pass - card - for that. You can get a train right up to the summit of Machu Picchu apparently. It looks amazing, they -"

He holds up a hand to silence me. "I haven't got a thousand pounds, either."

"Well, how much_ have_ you got?"

He gives a rueful smile, reaches into his pocket and holds out the meagre contents to me on the palm of his hand.

I want to cry. "That's_ all?"_

He shrugs. "Pretty much. 'Til I get paid next week anyway."

My dream is slipping through my fingers. "You don't have any savings _at_ _all?"_

He shakes his head. "I live on my wages, Hermione. Even if I had something to save for, which I don't, I still wouldn't have more than a few Galleons to spare each month."

"But surely Harry doesn't charge you rent?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "Of course he does. What, you think I'd just sponge off him for two years?"

"Yes, but not the _full _amount, surely? I mean, you're his best friend! You're practically his _brother! _And it's not as though he needs the money..."

"That's got nothing to do with it," he says, stubbornly, "I found out what I'd be paying if I was renting a room in that area, and that's what I pay. Plus bills, of course."

_Of course. _Stupid of me to even doubt it. Harry doesn't live in a cheap area either, even by London standards. He inherited a lot of money from his parents, and even more from his godfather, and was able to buy a house outright, on a quiet little street in a nice part of town, backing onto a park. If Ron's paying the standard rent for that area… well, no wonder he can't afford to save any money. Stupid, stubborn, pig-headed _idiot._

"Well…" I rack my brains for a solution. "What about if you moved in with me? Properly, I mean?"

"Hermione -"

"No, no, not _now,_ obviously!" I say, hastily, "I just mean, you know, in a few months time or whenever…"

"Then I'd start paying you rent."

"But -"

"Hermione, I'm not taking your money. You _know_ me. It's never going to happen."

"Even if it means we're both stuck in jobs we hate?"

He bites his lip and looks away from me. "Yeah, you know what? Moral blackmail isn't going to make me change my mind."

"No, that's not -"

"Don't make this my fault too," he says, coldly.

I am shocked into silence. We sit there for almost a minute without speaking, then I let out a sigh.

"I'm sorry. I was just getting carried away. It was a silly idea."

"It wasn't a silly idea. It's just not practical, that's all. And it's too soon."

"No, I know. You're right."

"Wow, really?" he jokes, weakly, "I'm right about something?"

"You're right about lots of things, Ron. I'm the one who's done everything wrong these last two years. And then I finally did something right, and realised I needed you back, and I fucked it up again. I pushed you away. I'm so sorry."

Ron looks slightly uncomfortable at the turn this conversation has suddenly taken. He knows I only ever use language like that when I'm really upset.

"It doesn't matter," he says faintly.

"It _does_ matter!"

"Yeah, I know, I didn't mean…" He sighs. "Why don't you leave your job, if you hate it so much?"

"Why don't you leave yours?"

"I asked first."

"I don't know," I admit. "No, well, I _do._ For the last two years my job's been the only thing in my life. And I'd given up so much for it, I suppose I just couldn't bear to admit I'd made a mistake. It's only since you've been back that I've realised quite how much I hate it. Every morning when I walk into my office, it just reminds me of the worst decision I ever made. I haven't really had time to think about what I might want to do instead. I suppose I keep waiting for inspiration to strike."

"You need something like SPEW, something where you can really make a difference."

I am stunned. "You always used to tease me mercilessly about that!"

He gives a small smile. "Yeah, but a) you were really passionate about it, and b) I was an idiot."

"You weren't an idiot, Ron."

"Well, yeah, I_ was._ It was something you really cared about and I took the piss out of you for it. That makes me an idiot."

I stare down at my feet for several long seconds. "You're right, though. I always wanted to take it further, but then I suppose the war got in the way. And… other things. I need a new challenge. Just another job isn't going to do that."

"You need a cause," he says, thoughtfully.

I nod. "I think you're right. Maybe that was my problem before. The war was our cause for so long, and when it was over, there was nothing to fill that gap."

"You could take a few months off, do some voluntary work. I mean, if you've got enough money saved to pay the rent and buy food, why not? Speak to Anna about it, if you want."

I glance up at him sharply, but he seems perfectly sincere.

"Well, I _could_, I suppose, but…"

"But what? You seem determined to spend it on something. Why not on something useful?"

"I'd rather spend it on you."

A small, tight smile. "I'm not useful."

_"Us_, then. When are we ever going to get a chance like this again?"

"Probably never, but that's not the point."

"Wouldn't you like to see the world?"

He shrugs. "I'm not that bothered, really. I've seen the Pyramids and Stonehenge and you with no clothes on, what else do I need to see?"

I open my mouth to retort, then sigh and give in. "That's a very Ron thing to say," I tell him.

He frowns, obviously not quite understanding my point.

"A compliment wrapped in a joke," I explain.

"Ah," he says, grimacing, "Sorry."

"Don't be. No more apologies, remember?"

He smiles. "Alright."

"Anyway, I like it."

He chuckles.

_--_

After that, we sit there in silence for some time, just staring out to sea. My mind is racing. I _could_ take a few months off work. There's no reason whatsoever why I couldn't. They'd probably even let me just take a few months' sabbatical, in fact, as I've got two years worth of accrued holiday I've never taken. But then, why not just _leave?_ If I'm honest with myself, I just don't want to work there anymore. What's to stop me going into the office tomorrow and handing in my notice? Apart from the fact that I'd be unemployed with no job to go to, of course.

--

It would have been nice to go travelling with Ron - it would have been _wonderful_, I think, wistfully - but it was never anything more than a pipe dream. I can't believe I even suggested it, to be honest. Harry would laugh if I told him. "I'm sorry; you offered to _pay_ for him? How long have you known Ron, again? He won't even let me buy him a cup of _tea_ without insisting he pay me back."

--

And actually, although I'd have to swallow my pride in quite a major way if I were to ask _Anna_ for advice, Ron's charity idea is a pretty good one. The more I think about it, the more I think it may just be the best idea he's ever _had_, in fact. How many charities are there crying out for volunteers? Just in the Muggle world, let alone the wizarding one. I'm sure I wouldn't have any trouble finding something useful to fill my time. Somewhere I can really make a difference, somewhere I can _help_ people.

_--_

And he's right about SPEW, my youthful one-woman campaign to improve the legal rights of house elves. What happened to that girl? The passionate girl he fell in love with, who had _ideas_. Who wanted to make a _difference_. Why _didn't_ I take that further? It was something I always wanted to do, but then the war got in the way, and after that I was busy with work, and Ron… just living, I suppose. I just never seemed to have the _time_. Well, maybe now I have. Time is a luxury not everyone can afford, but _I _can, at least for a few months, so why not make the most of it?

After all, I realise, with a sudden pang of regret, I'm going to have a lot of free evenings to fill if I'm only seeing Ron a couple of times a week from now on.

--

I glance across at him, and my mind drifts back to the kiss we shared earlier, in the romantic environs of a hospital corridor. He could have pushed me away, but he didn't. He kissed me back. He wanted it just as much as I did.

--

And when we were in the Three Broomsticks, he was definitely considering us renting a room for the night. I saw it in his eyes. Just like I'm sure I saw the same look in his eyes that very first night, when I pulled open the door to him, and he saw me in just my knickers and an old t-shirt.

--

And when we were leaving the hospital, he made that joke about me having to go on top for a while… I mean, that doesn't sound like he thinks we'll just be dating, does it? It sounds as though he pictures us still together, sleeping together, the way we have been. I don't think he really wants this... this dating idea, only seeing each other a couple of times a week. I don't think he wants it any more than I do. I don't think he _knows_ what he wants, to be honest. Hope soars within me. Maybe I could still change his mind.

--

"So," I begin, lightly, "There's something I've been wondering about…"

Our eyes meet, and I hold his gaze.

"That first night... when you came back... the way you _looked_ at me. I thought, for a second..."

"What?" he asks, softly, "What did you think?"

"I thought you were going to -" I stop, feeling my face grow hot, although I've no idea why it should. "_You know."_

He looks down at his shoes. "I was," he admits. "I wanted to, anyway. At least, for about three seconds." He rubs his knee distractedly. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" I ask, surprised.

He shrugs.

"I would have let you, you know."

He raises an ironic eyebrow. "_Let _me?"

"Well, okay, maybe that wasn't the best choice of words. I would have wanted it just as much as you did. I would have -"

I hesitate, then decide, to hell with it. "Shagged you silly."

He bursts out laughing, and it makes me laugh too.

"You could have _tried_," he grins, "But I don't think you'd have got very far."

"Why not?"

"Well, I don't know if you noticed, but I'd had rather a lot of Firewhiskey..."

It's my turn to laugh. "I remember. You smelled like you'd been bathing in it."

He chuckles. "Yeah, it's a good thing you didn't light a match anywhere near me. I'd have gone up like a firework."

--

We grin at each other, and then Ron's gaze slips automatically down my body and quickly away again. I feel the heat rise within me. _God_ it's been a long week.

--

I know that we both want to (I don't think there's any doubt about that!), but I don't know if we should. If it would just complicate things or if, since we have already agreed that tomorrow is a new start, it almost doesn't _matter_ what happens tonight.

--

"Ron?" His eyes flicker back to my face and I hold his gaze. "What are we tonight?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if the dating starts tomorrow... I mean... is _this _a date?"

He frowns. "No…" he says, slowly, "No, tonight's just… whatever tonight is." He gives an apologetic shrug.

"The last match of the season," I say, ruefully.

He looks away to hide his smile. "Something like that, yeah."

"So tomorrow's a new season?"

"Yeah, I suppose it is. New season, new start." He raises his eyebrows suggestively. "New positions for the players…"

We both laugh.

"You always have to make something filthy of it, don't you?" I say, reproachfully.

"And you love it," he grins, then his grin fades. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

I stop smiling too. "I'll have to be, won't I?"

"Yeah. That's not really answering the question, is it?"

"Well, I'm sorry, but it's the best I can do right now. If you want me to be _happy_ about it…"

We fall silent and Ron distracts himself digging for interesting pebbles and shells amongst the shingle beside him.

"You didn't really answer _my_ question, either," I remind him.

"What question?"

"About what tonight is. What _we_ are tonight."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because..." I take a deep breath. "Because I want to kiss you and I don't know if I can. If you want me to."

He flushes. "Oh."

"Actually, I want to do _more_ than kiss you, but that would _definitely_ be going too far considering we haven't even had our first date yet. _Wouldn't it?_" I add, when he looks as though he might be tempted.

"Mm," he says, uncertainly.

"I'm sorry. We don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

He gives a short laugh. "I _do_ want to. I just... don't know if it's a good idea."

He picks up a large, smooth flat pebble and turns it over and over in his hand, staring absently out to sea.

"It's not that I don't _want_ to, it's just... I think there are still a few things we need to sort out, and… well, I can't argue with you if my tongue's in your mouth, can I?"

"I think you might give it a damn good try."

He laughs out loud. "Well, if anyone can manage to argue and snog at the same time, _we_ can!"

I force a laugh, but I'm still somewhat confused as to exactly what I've signed up to here. What the small print is that I foolishly didn't read before I said yes to him. What the rules are. The messages I'm getting are mixed, to say the least.

"So if we're dating…?" I persist.

He just looks at me.

"Are we… can we still… I mean, is it_ just_ dating?"

I can tell he has no idea what I'm trying to say.

"I mean, will we just go to the cinema or out for a meal or whatever, and then go home again? Separately?"

"Well…_ yeah_. That's what dating is."

"No, I'm sorry; I'm not explaining it very well. I meant to say, will you stay over afterwards?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Oh."

"Is that okay?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

There is a short pause.

"So there won't be any… you don't want us to…"

"Just say it, for Christ's sake!"

"There won't be any…" I lower my voice to a whisper - although I'm not sure why, when there is no-one around except us and a few seagulls - "..._sex?"_

His eyes widen and his mouth falls open in surprise. "Oh! I hadn't - I didn't really think about that."

"You didn't really_ think_ about that?" I repeat, incredulously.

"Hard to believe, I know. Nah, look, it's our first date, I'm not expecting anything more than a kiss on the cheek. I mean, you're not the type of girl who goes all the way on a first date, surely?" He laughs, nervously.

Strangely, I find the idea of dating from scratch something of a turn-on, but I don't tell him that.

"What if I _want_ to give you more than just a kiss on the cheek?" I ask boldly.

He shrugs. "I don't know. That's the point. We'll just take it as it comes, I guess. But I'm not staying over. And nor are you, if you come back to mine. I'll turf you out in the middle of the night if I have to."

"I don't think Ginny would like me coming over to yours."

"Tough. I pay rent. If she doesn't like it, I'll just move out. It's about time I did anyway."

He hesitates.

"Look, it's silly to pretend we haven't got all this history. It's not our_ first date_ first date, it's just the first step in this next… part. I think we should just play it by ear. If we want to... _do stuff_, we should let ourselves do it. It's not about that, anyway. It's about having some space and some rules and not living in each pockets until we can work some of this stuff out. You know, no assumptions, and no guarantees. If you're busy, you can just say no, you know?" He watches me uncertainly.

"I won't be busy, Ron."

"Well… you_ can_ be, if you want. We shouldn't assume anything. I want to take this really slowly. Let's just see how it goes. Is that… is that OK?"

"Yes, but... when you say no guarantees… do you mean, date other people as well?"

"Fuck, no!"

I raise my eyebrows at his language and he laughs. "Sorry. But no, absolutely not. I don't think that would be a good idea at all." He frowns all of a sudden. "You don't mean you _want_ to, do you?"

"No, of course not. I just wasn't sure what you meant, you know, by _dating_... So we're exclusive, then?"

"God, Hermione, of course we are! Look, I don't want things to change between us, I want us to still be together, we're just… not living together for a while, that's all. I don't want to go out with anyone else, and I hope you don't either."

"I don't. I definitely don't."

"Well... _good."_

We smile at each other, and I feel marginally more hopeful than I did a few minutes ago.

"So when are we having our first date, then?" I ask, in what I hope is a casual voice.

"Don't mind," he says, in exactly the same tone of pretend indifference, "You say."

Tomorrow's too soon. Tuesday probably is too. But if I say anything later he might think I'm not bothered, and I _am_. Wednesday, maybe?

"Thursday?" I suggest, hopefully, not wanting to sound like I'm pressuring him.

"I was thinking Friday," he mumbles, going crimson.

My heart sinks. Okay, so he really is taking this seriously. This isn't going to be just seeing each other every night and falling back into our previous routine. He really means it about only seeing each other a couple of times a week.

"Friday's fine," I say weakly.

"Is that alright?"

"Of course it is. It's fine."

He bites his lip. "It's not because... I'm just doing something on Thursday, that's all."

_That and you don't want me to assume anything, expect anything._

"Me and Anna are going to Monkey World," he says, fixing me with a challenging stare.

I'm too surprised to be upset. "_Monkey_ World?"

"Yeah, it's a zoo. In Dorset. She thought it might cheer me up. You know, looking at monkeys." He shrugs. "She rearranged all her shifts 'specially so she could get the day off, so… anyway, that's what I'm doing," he finishes defensively.

_And you can like it or lump it,_ he might as well have added. I understand that he's not going to give up his friendship with Anna just because of my petty jealousy. I am going to have to learn to live with it, that's all. If I want him, she's part of the deal. I have to trust him, even if the thought of him just going to look at monkeys with her, let alone anything else, makes me feel anxious and sick.

"She's a good friend," I finally manage to say.

"Yeah. She is."

There is a slightly awkward pause.

"Right, then," he says, decisively, "I'll come and pick you up at seven, then, shall I?"

"Pick me up?" I repeat, blankly.

"Yeah. That's what people do when they go on dates. So they tell me, anyway."

"Oh. Okay, then."

We are silent for a few seconds. "So where are we going?" I ask.

"When?" he says, absently.

"On Friday. For our first date."

He looks away from me to hide his smile. "Well, _actually_… I was thinking maybe we could do something we've never done before. Make it really special, you know? Something we'll remember."

He grins. "Shame Monkey World's already taken."

"Something we've never done before?" I repeat, blankly. "Like what?"

He shrugs. "I hadn't really thought it through that far, to be honest."

"What," I say dryly, "Like hang-gliding?"

"Well, maybe not _exactly_ like hang-gliding, but yeah, that was the idea. Maybe something a bit less... lethal."

"Well..."

I rack my brains for something that would be romantic, but not actively dangerous. I can't help wondering what's wrong with a nice meal and a film, exactly?

"I've never been in a hot air balloon."

"It doesn't have to be something a hundred feet up in the air," he says, dryly.

I shrug. "Bowling?"

He laughs. "_Bowling?"_

"Well, you think of something, then!" I retort, rather sharply, "This was _your_ stupid idea, remember?"

His smile vanishes instantly, and I wish I had not said it.

"So, where...?" I ask, brightly, as though I hadn't just snapped his head off.

Ron's brow is furrowed in thought. "I've never been Scottish country dancing."

I shake my head. "Ron. I am not taking you Scottish country dancing."

"Why not? Aside from the fact that I can't _dance_, obviously."

"I was thinking more along the lines that you're a six foot three man with a Scottish first name and red hair. You'll be mobbed."

He laughs, delightedly. "Oh, so _that's_ why we never went!"

"Well, that and I knew I'd never get you to wear a kilt."

"Oh, God no! Not with my legs!"

"That's what I thought."

We both laugh and then he raises a mischievous eyebrow. "Hmm, something we've never _done_ before…"

"You're thinking of something filthy, aren't you?"

He pretends to be offended. "Not necessarily."

We both giggle like teenagers, then something almost imperceptible changes in the atmosphere, and we fall silent.

"I've never had sex on the beach," he says, carefully not looking at me.

A small thrill of expectation goes through my body. "Me neither."

_Pause._

I clear my throat. "Do you… do you want to?"

"Do _you_ want to?" he says, hoarsely.

"I could be persuaded," I say, lightly, my voice sounding very far away.

He stares out to sea for what seems like an eternity, and then he shakes his head. "You know what? I'm probably gonna kick myself for this later, but I think I'd rather wait."

I can't help feeling rather disappointed, and he seems to sense this, because he adds, hastily, "I mean, if you're not the kind of girl who has sex on a first date, I _definitely_ don't think you're the kind of girl who has sex _before_ it…" He throws me a grin to let me know he's joking.

"_Third_ date, maybe?" I tease, remembering Jeff and his assumption that three dates equals sex.

"Well, that's up to you, isn't it?"

"Not _just_ me. I rather think it depends how good you are at charming my knickers off."

He chuckles. "You'll just have to wait and see, won't you? Anyway, we haven't even had our first date yet. What if we don't get on? You might disappear to the loo halfway through the evening and never come back."

"I don't think there's much danger of _that_. Anyway, _you_ were the one who ditched their date in the middle of dinner. If anything, _I'm _the one who should be worried."

"No chance. I'm on a third date promise. You could spend the whole of the first date slagging off the Cannons and the second one talking about horoscopes, and I'd _still _turn up for the third one."

I affect outrage. "You're very sure of yourself!"

"You were the one who said it! Anyway, it'll be nearly three weeks by then, won't it? You'll be gagging for it."

_"Me?!"_

"Yes, _you_, Miss I-Can't-Last-A-Week. We might as well just have the date in your bedroom, because that's where it's gonna end up."

"Fine, then why don't you come round to my place for dinner? I'll cook for you. You can bring a bottle of wine and some flowers."

A slow grin spreads across his face. "You're really taking this seriously, aren't you?"

"Well, if we're going to do this, we should at least do it properly. And besides, I've never been on a proper grown-up date before. I want flowers."

"Alright," he nods, "You're on."

"I'm looking forward to it already."

"Not half as much as I am."

We grin at each other, and then look away.

"So that's our _third_ date sorted; what are we going to do on the _first_ one?"

"I dunno," he admits. "Leave it with me. I'll think of something. It'll be a surprise."

"But how will I know what to wear?" I ask, slyly.

He smiles slightly. "Wear something _nice_, of course. You want to make a good first impression, don't you?"

"Well, I _have _got a nice new dress I could wear…"

"Have you?" he deadpans, "Wear that, then."

"Or I could surprise you…?"

He smiles. "Good. Surprise me. I look forward to it."

"I've got some sexy new knickers as well," I say, boldly.

He looks down at his shoes to hide his grin. "Well, I don't expect to get to see those, seeing as how it's only our first date and all, but I'll bear it in mind for later. Third -"

"Date..." we finish together, then laugh.

I beam at him, amazed. This was something that should have been depressing, something we were forced into a last resort because we failed at living together, and he's somehow managed to turn it into a game. Something _fun_, rather than a difficult hurdle to be tackled. Something exciting, something to actually look _forward_ to. God, I _love_ this man.

"I've never been skinny-dipping," I whisper, feeling daring now, "Have you?"

_"No!"_ he laughs, "And I'm not going to now either!"

"There's no-one around."

"It's the North Sea! It's probably about four degrees in there!"

"I will if you will."

He shakes his head. "My cock'll freeze solid and snap off."

_"Ron!"_ I scold, laughing.

"Fine," he says, mock-grudgingly, "If you're not bothered about having children… at least let me test the water first. I'm not having you catch your death."

He leans forward and starts to untie his shoelaces.

"If I lose any toes, Granger, I'm blaming you."

I reach out and put my hand on his arm to stop him.

"Don't."

"You were all for it a minute ago!" he protests, indignantly.

"I know, but you shouldn't get your bandage wet. And you're right, the water will be freezing. And – well, we wouldn't want to risk the chance of anything snapping off, now, would we?"

He smiles slightly. "No, we wouldn't want that."

He lets out a wide yawn, then glances automatically at his watch._"Shit."_

"What time is it?"

"You don't want to know. Let's just say it's going to be a long, _long_ day at work tomorrow. _Today_, I should say. As if Monday mornings weren't bad enough already!"

He rubs his face wearily. "Another week in hell…"

"Do you really hate your job that much?"

"I don't _hate_ it… it's just _boring_, that's all. I come in and I know exactly what my day's going to be like. I only took the job in the first place to earn some money so I could move out of Mum and Dad's. Alright, it didn't hurt that it was working for the Quidditch League, and I don't deny that the staff discount on my Cannons season ticket helped too, but… I've been doing this job nearly _seven years_, Hermione. I've seen blokes younger than me come in and get promoted, whereas I'm still basically doing the same job I was when I started, and for not much more money either. I'm never going to be able to afford to save money or go on holiday or buy a house on this salary. But it's more than that, it's just that I'm doing the same thing I was doing seven years ago, and I'm bored of it. It's not challenging anymore. Well, it's _never_ been challenging, but I suppose the difference is I've started to _care_…"

"Have you been looking for other jobs?"

He shakes his head. "I'd need to know what I wanted to _do_ first."

"Well, what are you good at?"

An ironic little laugh. "Nothing."

_"Ron,"_ I warn.

He shrugs. "I don't _know_ what I'm good at, Hermione. I'm not being… deliberately negative or anything. I just don't know. If I knew, I'd tell you."

"Well…" I am at a loss for words. "What would you _like_ to do?"

"I'd _like_ to play Quidditch, but I'm not good enough."

He says the last with a distinct air of triumph that he's "won" this little conversation. We stare out to sea for a few minutes, him turning a pebble over and over in his palm, me desperately racking my brains for something he could do.

"Have you ever thought about teaching?"

He lets out a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, _right!_ Can you imagine _me_ teaching?"

I feel rather hurt that he's rejected my idea out of hand.

"Well, obviously I don't mean teach History of Magic or anything like that. I can't imagine you setting homework. I mean, teaching Quidditch."

He shakes his head. "I think Professor Hooch might have something to say about that. Anyway, I told you, I wouldn't go back to Hogwarts if you paid me. _And_ I'd have to live at the school." He shudders in mock-horror.

"Well… it doesn't have to be at _Hogwarts_… aren't there any other magical schools?"

I know the answer is no before I've even finished the sentence.

"Durmstrang. If you're happy to move to Russia. It's a bit further than Devon…"

I'm not giving up just yet. "Well, what about -" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Hermione. Can you seriously imagine me as a teacher? _Seriously?"_

"I think you'd be rather good at it, actually."

That shuts him up. He just stares at me, mouth open, finally at a loss for a snappy comeback.

"You've lost it," he says, weakly. "I'd be the worst teacher _ever._ I _hated_ school, remember?" He starts laughing suddenly. "The only people who'd be worse than me are the twins. When I used to Keep for them when we were kids, they just spent the entire time trying to hit the Quaffle at my head. They were supposed to be looking after me, but they kept thinking up new ways to torture me instead. I'd come in from the field every day with a different new head injury. I think Mum just assumed I was particularly accident-prone."

"Yes, well," I say, stiffly, "They were lucky I wasn't around then, or I'd have had something to say about it."

He chuckles. "Oh, I didn't mind too much. I was just grateful they let me join in their game. It was either that or be stuck inside playing tea parties with Ginny's dolls. At least I was getting to play with the big boys. We were lucky we had the field, actually. That's definitely an advantage of living in the country, having a little bit of land you can use as a Quidditch pitch. I remember Dean telling me he grew up in a tower block, and the only place he could play football was in the street."

"So where did all the other kids from wizarding families learn to play Quidditch? The ones who lived in towns?"

He shrugs. "I suppose they didn't. Not until they went to Hogwarts, anyway."

"But… there must be _some_where for children to go to play Quidditch before they're eleven, or in the school holidays? Playing fields, or…?"

"Not as far as I know. I wish there had been, it would have been nice to get to play with other kids without having to worry about the twins bashing my head in."

"So unless they're lucky and have their own field, kids from wizarding families don't get a chance to play Quidditch until they're eleven?"

He shakes his head.

"But... _you_ had a field, and you got to play Quidditch from when you were very little, and your family produced four people good enough to play for their House team at school, and another good enough to play professionally, if -"

"If he hadn't buggered off to Romania to work with dragons instead, yeah." He throws me an amused look. "What are you suggesting, Hermione? I buy my own field?"

"No, of course not. But it doesn't seem fair... You work for the Quidditch League; you must be able to do something about it."

"Like what, exactly? I measure goal hoops for a living, Hermione. Why on earth would they listen to m-"

He stops talking abruptly and his eyes widen. "You know, that's actually not a bad idea."

I am not sure exactly what I have just proposed.

"Er... it _is?"_

"Yeah. I mean, there's definitely a gap in the market, isn't there? You're right, there's nowhere for kids to go to play Quidditch or learn how to play it properly before they go off to school when they're eleven. If there was some sort of… I dunno, _scheme_, or something…"

"Well, why don't you suggest it?"

"To who?"

"Your boss. You could run the scheme, teach them the basics... maybe even set up a Junior League, if there's enough interest."

He stares at me. "That would be a brilliant idea... a Junior League… yeah, that would…" He frowns. "_I_ can't do it, though."

"Why not?"

He shrugs. "Well... it's a fairly major undertaking, isn't it?"

"But you like the idea? You'd be interested in doing it?"

"Yeah, of course I would. It would be a_maz_ing. I just…"

He tails off, lost in thought. "God, I'd have _loved_ that when I was a kid, if there was somewhere I could go and play Quidditch. Not that we could have afforded anything like that, of course."

"Well, that would be the point. The League would pay for it. Or at least subsidise it. It's an investment in the future of the game, after all."

Doubt suddenly seizes me. I have no idea whether the League would pay for it, or even be interested. How could I? I know next to nothing about Quidditch, and even less about how the League works. I could be setting him up for a major disappointment if this doesn't work out.

But Ron's imagination has caught fire.

"God, you're _right!"_ he exclaims. "I mean, all the really good players start out young. If we could catch people with talent early, we could train them up, give them special coaching a couple of afternoons a week or something. No, _wait!_ You know what could really work? We could set up some sort of traineeship scheme with the clubs! Then they wouldn't have to shell out thousands of Galleons for the best players from abroad, because they'd have a ready-made squad of the best young players from the local area already coached in the team style. God, it could really change the game completely!"

_"And you're supposed to be the unambitious one?" I think to myself, ironically._

"Not to mention that the fans would have more investment in the club, because it'd be local players rather than foreigners, so you'd get bigger crowds, and the England team would have a wider pool of players with professional experience to choose from for international matches. Oh, _fuck_. This is such a good idea, I can't believe someone at the League won't have thought of it already. There'll have been some reason it wouldn't work. Yeah, there'll..."

He turns to look at me, his eyes alight with possibility. "This could actually work, couldn't it?"

"Of course it could!" I say, more confidently than I feel.

He falls silent again, and I cough gently to remind him of my presence.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking it's a brilliant idea, but I can't see them putting such a big project in the hands of someone only one step up from the tea boy."

"Ron," I say, sternly, "You're talking yourself out of it again."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to walk in there and say, 'My girlfriend reckons there ought to be a Junior League for under-sixteens, and I should run it. Can I have my own office, a field, and ten thousand Galleons to set it up?' I'd be laughed out of the building!"

"Well, that's what we'd need to work on. Putting together a proposal listing all the reasons why they'd be mad _not_ to hire you for the job. I'd be happy to help you with it, if you want. Not that you aren't capable, of course!" I add, hastily.

"No…" he says, slowly, "No, that would be brilliant."

"You'll need facts and figures to support your case, of course. What it might cost, that sort of thing. You'd need to find out how many people this could appeal to, for a start. How many children there are from wizarding families in the UK. There must be a register or something."

"I've no idea. A few thousand? I could ask Percy, I suppose. It's the sort of thing he might know."

"You know, I bet if you talked to your Dad about it, you could even use the field at The Burrow. Initially, at least, just to see how things work out. You could even mention it in your proposal, that you have somewhere in mind already, that it wouldn't need to cost them anything. It certainly wouldn't hurt. _Oh!"_ I exclaim, suddenly excited, "I could make you a pie chart! And some graphs!"

He laughs at my burst of enthusiasm. "You're more excited about this than I am!"

I feel all at once incredibly guilty. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry! I'm getting carried away, aren't I?"

"No, it's good. I like you getting carried away. I haven't seen you this excited about something for ages. Not since you came back from that museum on our anniversary weekend, in fact."

He laughs, and I shove him good-naturedly.

"I am _not_ only interested in graphs and museums!"

"I know you're not, I'm joking." His expression suddenly grows serious. "You know, if I had the backing of the League, this could really turn into something amazing. Maybe I could even persuade them to pay for an advert in _The Prophet!_"

"Or get them to do an article on it, and get free advertising. They could interview you, maybe even use a picture of you with the House Cup… I think I've got one somewhere… Harry will, if I don't."

His face clouds over all of a sudden. "Knowing my luck, they'll think it's a great idea, but they'll want to get someone with proper experience in, like an ex-professional player or something…."

His eyes narrow, and I can tell he's thinking of Viktor Krum.

"Well, then, you'll just have to convince them you're the right person for the job, won't you?"

"Am I?" he says, doubtfully.

"Of course you are!"

"I haven't got any experience, though."

"You helped win the cup two years in a row at school, didn't you?"

"Yeah, _nine years _ago!"

"And you play in a Sunday League team now, don't you?"

"Yeah, but -"

"And you've worked for the Quidditch League for nearly seven years, haven't you? You know how it works, you've got connections at the clubs, you know the right people to ask…"

"I'd have to cut back on my swearing…" he says, half to himself, "And I haven't got any qualifications or experience of working with kids… why would they even listen to me?"

"But you _have!"_ I exclaim, suddenly excited.

"Have what?"

"You _have_ got experience working with kids! You were a prefect at school for two years, weren't you?"

He shakes his head. "I was a _shit_ prefect, you mean..."

"No, you _weren't_, Ron! Listen… you're _good_ with kids. You don't talk down to them. I saw how you were as a prefect, remember? If they were in trouble, they'd come to _you_, not me. I was one step down from McGonagall as far as they were concerned, but you… they _trusted_ you. They knew you weren't going to tell them off, or shop them to a teacher. You'd just try and help. Help them hide the _evidence_ on one occasion, if I remember rightly…"

He laughs. "No comment!"

"But that's just_ it_, Ron. You were one of them, and they knew it. Kids aren't stupid. They knew they could trust you, because given half a chance you'd be up to some of the same stuff they were. That's why I think you'd make a good teacher. You understand what the kids are going through. You _care_. Remember Remus? What a good teacher he was? Well, that's how good I think_ you_ could be. _Better_, because you'd be doing something you really love. And I don't think it would hurt that your surname's on a chain of famous joke shops, either."

"Yeah, but that's my brothers, not me."

"That doesn't matter," I say, dismissively, "It's a name everyone knows, and both children and adults will trust."

He doesn't answer, just picks up a pebble and turns it over and over in his hand, brow furrowed in thought.

"Actually, I take it back," I tease, "You'd be a_ terrible_ teacher. You'd be an absolute pushover."

It suddenly strikes me that I might well end up married to a _teacher_ after all… albeit not one with leather patches on the elbows of his corduroy jacket, or a book of poetry in his pocket. I laugh out loud at the unlikely mental image this conjures up, but he's too distracted to notice.

"Why would parents want _me_ to teach their kids, though? _Harry_, I can understand. _You_, I can _definitely_ understand, but _me_..."

"Oh, of _course,_" I say, sarcastically, "Why would parents want their kids taught by a _war hero?_"

I can feel him blush rather than see it in the darkness. He waves his hand dismissively. "Yeah, but I'm hardly gonna mention _that_, am I?"

"Why not?" I demand.

"Well... it's like showing off, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't! You _did_ all those things, didn't you? You did them when you were barely more than a kid yourself. Don't you think that ought to count for something?"

Ron looks uncomfortable. "You and Harry did all those things with me. It wasn't like I was on my own."

"Yes, and if _I_ were applying for a job I'd make damn certain I put it on my C.V, and so should you. You're one of the youngest people ever to have received the Order of Merlin, Ron, you should be _proud_ of it! I assume you mentioned it when you applied for this job, didn't you?"

He shakes his head.

I gape at him. "Why not?"

"Well… it wasn't really relevant, was it?"

I shake my head in disbelief. "For God's _sake_, Ron!"

"What?" he snaps, defensively. "It was an entry level position working for the Quidditch League, Hermione. It's not like I was applying to be an Auror or anything."

"You wanted to be an Auror once."

"Yeah, well, I was young and stupid, wasn't I? That kind of thing's all well and good when you haven't just spent two years of your life fighting Death Eaters and seeing people die. I've _done_ all that. I wouldn't be an Auror for a thousand Galleons. I told you before, I'm just happy to be doing something I enjoy."

"But you _don't_ enjoy it! You said yourself, it's _boring_. There's no challenge. No-one's saying you have to fight Death Eaters and save the world, Ron. I wouldn't want to do that _either._ You just shouldn't waste your talent on a job you don't enjoy. You're better than that."

He falls silent. He hates, absolutely _hates_, being paid compliments. I wait for him to deflect attention away from himself with a self-deprecating joke, but he doesn't say anything, just picks up a pebble from the beach beside him, and jabs it violently into the shingle.

"You need to give yourself more credit," I chide him, gently.

"I still don't see how it's relevant to a job teaching Quidditch," he mutters. "Which doesn't even _exist_, so I don't know why we're still talking about it."

"Because you'd be _good_ at it, Ron! Because you'd be doing something really worthwhile, and you'd actually be _enjoying_ it!"

He just shrugs.

"Fine!" I say, exasperatedly. "Because you could be training up the next Cannons Seeker, and maybe they might actually _win_ something for once!"

He shakes his head in awed wonder. "You never give up, do you?"

"_No_. And nor do you, or you wouldn't be sitting here now."

He smiles slightly. "Do you really think I could do it?"

_"Yes!"_

"You're bloody amazing, you know that?"

I feel my heartbeat quicken.

"You're not so bad yourself."

We beam at each other for what seems like ages, then he just says, "Oh, fuck it," and the next thing I know I've been knocked backwards on the pebbles and Ron's mouth is pressed against mine.

"You taste salty," I murmur, pulling away after a few moments to get my breath back. I feel his chest start to shake with suppressed laughter. I thump him in the arm, and he laughs out loud.

"Like the sea, I mean," I protest, heat rising in my face, and then, when he only laughs even louder, "Oh, for God's _sake_, Ron…"

I get a sudden stab of déjà vu and a pull on the heartstrings. We've been doing this routine for fifteen years, Ron making a suggestive joke and me pretending to be offended, and I hope we carry on doing it for ever. If we ever stop, then we know something's wrong.

We come together and kiss again, and awkwardly resume our previous position on the shingle, both of us making little noises of protest when the pebbles hurt our soft bodies.

_"Ow!_ Jesus Chr-!"

"What's the matter? Is it your hand?"

He shakes his head. "Elbowed some pebbles."

He rolls off me and flops down onto his back, rubbing his sore elbow and picking off the tiny stones that are stuck to the underside of his arm.

"Whoever said this was supposed to be romantic needs their head examined," he grumbles.

I laugh, then groan. "We need shells, like crabs."

He sighs. "It's not working, is it?"

I shake my head. "We could try again if you want," I say, hopefully.

Ron stifles a yawn. "S-sorry. Been a long night. Nah, let's just wait, like we said. Third date promise and all that. I think I'd probably just fall asleep on you, anyway."

"Have you thought about where you're going to take me yet?"

He shakes his head. "It's a surprise, remember?"

I shuffle across to lie beside him, and he slides an arm around my shoulder.

"A _good_ surprise?" I murmur, sleepily, snuggling up to his side and burying my face in the soft warmth of his jumper.

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that… how do you fancy paintballing?"

I narrow my eyes at him and he laughs. "Alright, alright, not paintballing!"

We fall into a companionable silence, lying there happily in each other's arms, just listening to the sound of the sea and gazing up at the starry sky.

"You know," says Ron, suddenly, "I could live here..."

I hardly dare look at him. "Oh?" I say, lightly.

"Yeah. There's something about being by the sea, isn't there? Like you can't be depressed, do you know what I mean? And it's so quiet here. Devon's great, but there are so many tourists. This would be a really good beach to walk a dog, too," he adds, gazing longingly down the beach as though picturing himself throwing a stick to an imaginary dog.

"It would," I agree. "Maybe even two dogs."

He glances at me, smiles slightly, then looks away again, back at the stars. "Maybe."

I smile to myself and cuddle up closer.

"So which one's Cassiopeia again?"

--

* * *

--

Ron is shaking my shoulder gently and whispering my name.

"Nooo," I protest, throwing off his hand and rolling over onto my side, "Come back to bed..."

His laugh wakes me up completely, and it is only then that I realise I am not in my own bed at all, but have fallen asleep on the beach and am still lying uncomfortably on the pebbles.

"What's the ti-"

"Look," he says, and turns his face away from me, toward the sea. I follow his gaze and see that the sun is coming up over the horizon, and the sea is bathed in a hundred different hues of glorious oranges, purples and reds.

"It's _incredible_…" I breathe.

He smiles at me, then reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. I don't know how long we sit there in silence, just looking out at the sea, until the sky is blue and it is definitely daylight. I am so tired that for once I am able to switch off my mind and just enjoy the warmth of the new day's sun on my skin, the sound of excited seagulls cawing overhead, and the feel of Ron's warm hand in mine.

"Heh," says Ron, suddenly, "I've just thought…"

I turn to look at him and he starts laughing. "If I go into work with my hand all bandaged up like this, everyone will think I've had some sort of terrible wanking accident!"

I let out a groan. "You really know how to spoil a mood, you know that?"

He is laughing so hard now he falls onto his back, clutching at his sides. I manage a smile, but then the mention of work reminds me that the night really is over, and I have to turn away from him to hide my tears. I feel... a sense of loss, and of apprehension. It's tomorrow. It's _tomorrow._ We're - whatever we are now. _Dating_. I won't be able to see him until Friday. He's not coming home. Not for "six months, maybe longer". Six months of only seeing him a couple of times a week and waking up alone.

"Hey," he says, dismayed, "It wasn't _that_ bad a joke, was it?"

He sits up again and puts a concerned arm around my shoulder, tucking my hair behind my ear so he can see my expression.

"I'm fine," I say, looking up at him and forcing a smile.

And I think I am. Okay, so I won't be able to see him until Friday. But I_ will_ see him. This time last week I didn't think I'd ever see him again. This time last week I was waking up to find that he hadn't come home the night before, and the bed was cold and empty beside me. I have to choke back a laugh. I wanted to spend the night with him, and - well, I got my wish, didn't I?

He watches me for a few more seconds, apparently unconvinced, then he says quietly, "It'll be alright, you know. I just need a little time."

"I know. It's fine. Really."

"Nothing's really changed, after all. We're still together. I just won't be leaving any more of my socks on your bedroom floor, that's all."

For some reason this makes the tears well up again.

He gives an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, al_right! _If it makes you feel any better, I'll _lend_ you some of my socks, then you can throw them on the floor and pretend I still live there."

I laugh, and wipe my eyes. "Maybe I could leave some dirty tea cups in the sink, too…" I add, mischievously.

_"Oi!" _he protests, and we both laugh.

"See?" he jokes, "You won't even notice I'm gone." His smile slips for half a second, barely long enough for me to notice, then he gives my shoulder a comforting squeeze, and kisses my forehead tenderly.

"You hungry?"

"I could eat something."

"Well, do you want to go and get some breakfast?"

I suddenly realise how hungry I am. "God, yes! That would be _perfect_. I could just eat bacon and eggs, and a big plate of toast, and some coffee, and - _oh, a bacon sandwich!"_

He laughs. "I know where we can get the best breakfast in the world."

"Where?"

"Give me your hand."

"Why, where are we going?"

"Trust me?"

"Not in the slightest."

He laughs. "Oh, just give me your hand, woman!"

I hold out my hand to him, smile, and close my eyes in readiness.

Nothing happens.

Ron gives a small, pointed cough. "Er, and your wand..."

--

* * *

--

Moments later when I open my eyes, we seem to be standing in a dark field, edged by trees. I glance up at him and frown, confused.

"Where...?"

He doesn't answer, just grips my shoulders wordlessly and turns me around to face a familiar tall, ramshackle building, a solitary light shining from the kitchen window. The Burrow.

"Oh, _no_, Ron!" I exclaim, wrenching myself out of his grasp and backing away from him. "I'm not ready for this!"

"Shh," he says, soothingly, "It'll be fine. Besides, we've been everywhere else. It was either here or the Cannons' ground, and you can't get a bacon sandwich at the Cannons' ground."

"But... I'm all windswept! And I'm wearing the same clothes I had on yesterday! And I need a wash!"

"You look fine. It's a cup of tea with my mum and dad, Hermione, you're not meeting the Queen. Anyway, Mum will still be in her dressing gown. She can't get too annoyed before breakfast, can she?"

He flashes me a grin and I manage a weak smile in return.

"We can't just _turn up..._"

"'Course we can. Mum's always saying she doesn't see enough of me. Anyway, at least this way you won't have had time to worry about it beforehand, and Mum won't have had time to get all worked up. And you won't have to face my entire family all at once, just Mum and Dad. We don't have to stay long, either. We'll just have some breakfast, and if it's really awful, we can just tell them we have to go to work and leave. It's true, anyway, so they can't complain."

"I don't know, Ron, are you sure?"

"I'm sure that this is the best place to get breakfast in the world, yeah."

"But are you sure about _this?"_

"It'll be fine." He pulls me to him and kisses the top of my head. "I promise," he murmurs into my hair, even though we both know he can't promise any such thing.

He reaches for my hand again and laces his fingers through mine, and we walk towards the door together. My stomach is churning with apprehension and fear. This is ridiculous. I'm more nervous now than I was before that last battle, when I was facing the very real possibility of my imminent death. But then, I suppose I'm fighting for much the same thing now. A future where Ron and I can be together.

"_Only this time I don't have to fight Death Eaters_," I think wryly to myself. "_I just have to have breakfast with Ron's parents."_

At the thought of food, my stomach growls loudly, and beside me Ron gives a low chuckle.

"Wow," he jokes, "You _really_ need that bacon sandwich..."

We both laugh.

"It'll be alright," he says, bracingly, "You'll see," and for the first time I hear the slight shake in his voice and realise he's trying to convince himself as much as me. For some reason this gives me more comfort than all of his reassuring words put together.

"I know," I say, with as much confidence as I can muster, and he flashes me a grateful smile.

We reach the door far too quickly for my liking, and Ron turns to look at me.

"Ready?"

I take a deep breath and nod, squaring my shoulders and holding my chin up high.

"Ready."

We can do this. It is just us, together, the way it always used to be. Me and him against the world. We lived through a _war_ together. I fought Voldemort, for God's sake. I sure as hell ought to be able to face Molly Weasley.

Even though I am prepared for it, the sound of Ron's knuckles rapping loudly on the heavy wooden door still makes me start nervously. A person-shaped shadow appears through the glass and I watch it getting closer and closer, my heart in my throat.

The door opens and Ron's dad is standing there, his mouth open in surprise and a piece of toast clutched forgotten in his hand.

His gaze falls first onto his son, then onto me, and finally drops to our joined hands.

"Who is it, Arthur?" Ron's mum's voice calls from the house.

Ron squeezes my hand in support, and I look up at him and smile uncertainly, and he smiles back. When I look back, his dad is beaming.

"It's Ron and Hermione," he says.

And at that moment, I'm sure it's going to be alright. Whatever happens, I know we'll both try our damndest to make this work. And if it doesn't… well, I can't think about that now. Friday evening is as far as I can think into the future. Our first date. The first match of a new season. New season, new start. New positions for the players. It's a match that can only end in a draw. We can both win, or we can both lose. Although today, for the first time in weeks, I'm starting to feel as though maybe we're playing for the same side. We're an _and_ again. We're an _us_ again. _Ronandhermione_. That's what we've always been.

--

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* * *

**_Author's Note:_**

--

You weren't _really _expecting one of those dreadful "And then they all got married in a big double wedding and everyone lived happily ever after in a giant house made of marshmallows" kind of endings, were you? Remember what I said in Chapter 12? _"There are no happy endings in real life, as in fiction…"_ Plus, every time someone begs me to give a story a happy ending, a kitten dies.

(metaphorically speaking, of course...)

--

If you haven't already done so, do go and read my other R & H fics, _"The For And Against List"_ and _"Six Foot of Ginger Idiot" _(ideally in that order). _"SFOGI"_ is the story of how they got together the first time round (from Ron's point of view), and covers the whole of Half-Blood Prince, so you can also read about 'the Lavender problem' first hand. If you can bear it.

--

Do also add me to your Author Alerts, as I have already started writing my next _Ronandhermione_ story, _"Waiting"_, which will be the story of their relationship during the war. Progress updates will be posted on my biog page, but I want to finish at least the first three chapters before I start posting the story, so don't expect anything before the New Year at the earliest.

--

And finally - oh, you know what I'm going to say - _please leave a review! _The person who leaves the "best" review will win the chance to commission me to write a short R or R/H story of their choice. Consider it a little thank-you present from me to you!

(Just a little tip: if you don't sign in, I can't reply!)

--

Right, I think I deserve a very large glass of wine now!

_(bows out)_

--

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